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OLD  LINES  IN  NEW  BLACK  AND  WHITE.  From 
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WELL-WORN  ROADS  OF  SPAIN,  HOLLAND,  AND 
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The  Same.  Popular  Edition.  Including  some  of  the  il- 
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A BOOK  OF  THE  TILE  CLUB.  Containing  1 14  reproduc- 
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and  Sketches  by  members  of  the  Tile  Club  of  New  York, 
including  27  full-page  phototypes.  With  Sketch  of  the 
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A WHITE  UMBRELLA  IN  MEXICO. 

HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  & CO. 

Boston  and  New  York. 


A WHITE  UMBRELLA 

IN  MEXICO 


BY 

F.  HOPKINSON  SMITH 


WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS  BY  THE  AUTHOR 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY 
iO)c  Rmcrside  press,  'Cambridge 

1890 


Copyright,  1889, 

By  F.  HOPKINSON  SMITH. 
All  rights  reserved . 


The  Riverside  Press , Cambridge , Mass.,  U . S.  A. 
Flectrotyped  and  Printed  by  H.  O.  Houghton  & Company' 


Typo-Gravures  by  IV.  Kurtz. 


/ dedicate  this  book  to  the  most  charming  of 
all  the  sehoritas  1 know;  the  one  whose  face 
lingers  longest  in  my  memory  while  1 am  away, 
and  whose  arms  open  widest  when  l return;  the 
most  patient  of  my  listeners,  the  most  generous 
of  my  critics  — my  little  daughter  Marion. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  pAGE 

Introduction t 

I.  A Morning  in  Guanajuato  ...  7 

II.  After  Dark  in  Silao 29 

III.  The  Opals  of  Quer£taro  ...  45 

IV.  Some  Peons  at  Aguas  Calientes  61 
V.  The  Old  Chair  in  the  Sacristy 

at  Zacatecas 79 

VI.  In  the  City’s  Streets  ....  100 

VII.  On  the  Paseo 119 

VIII.  Palm  Sunday  in  Puebla  de  i.os 

Angeles 128 

IX.  A Day  in  Toluca 152 

X.  To  Morelia  with  Moon  ....  165 
XI.  Patzcuaro  and  the  Lake  . . . 177 

XII.  TzintziJntzan  and  the  Titian  . 195 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


PAGE 

The  Pulque  Plant  i 

The  Patio  of  my  Benefactor  ....  7 

Church  of  la  ParrcSquia 15 

Garden  Park  at  Guanajuato  ....  20 

Church  of  Santiago,  Silao 29 

The  Plains  of  Silao 35 

The  Water-Jars  of  QuerEtaro  ...  45 

Church  of  Santa  Clara 51 

The  Garden  of  the  Senoritas  ...  56 

Market-Place  at  QuerEtaro  ....  60 

Highway  of  Aguas  Calientes  ....  61 

Adobe  Huts 67 

The  Old  Gardener’s  Azaleas  ....  77 

The  Old  Chair  of  the  Sacristy  ...  79 

Side  Entrance  of  Cathedral  of  Zaca- 
tecas   83 

The  Steps  of  the  Arcades 87 

The  Great  Dome  of  San  Francisco  . 100 
The  Little  Dome  of  the  Chapel  of 

San  Antonio 105 

Kitchen  of  the  Hotel  Jardin,  former- 
ly the  Chapel  of  San  Antonio  107 


List  of  Illustrations 


viii 


The  Peon  Girl  in  the  Convent  Win- 
dow   I08 

Ancient  Cypresses  at  Chapultepec  . . 119 

Near  the  Confessional  in  Puebla  . . 128 

Balconies  on  Palm  Sunday 130 

The  Markets  of  Puebla 144 

Snow-Capped  Orizaba i52 

The  River  Lerma I55 

The  Alameda,  Morelia 165 

On  the  Banks  of  the  Lake 177 

Moorish  Houses  of  Patzcuaro  ....  183 
Lake  Patzcuaro  from  the  Plain  . . 187 
The  Old  Convent  Church  at  Tzin- 

TZUNTZAN 193 

Before  the  Railroad 196 

Old  Belfry  at  Tzintzuntzan  ....  198 
Stone  Steps  of  the  Convent  ....  200 

The  Stations  of  the  Cross 210 

The  Sacristy  and  the  Titian  ....  212 


INTRODUCTION. 

My  probe  has  not  gone  very  far  below 
the  surface.  The  task  would  have  been 
uncongenial  and  the  result  superfluous. 
The  record  of  the  resources,  religions, 
politics,  governments,  social  conditions 
and  misfortunes  of  Mexico  already  en- 
larges many  folios  and  lies  heavy  on  many 
shelves,  and  I hope  on  some  consciences. 

I have  preferred  rather  to  present  what 
would  appeal  to  the  painter  and  idler.  A 
land  of  white  sunshine  redolent  with  flow- 
ers ; a land  of  gay  costumes,  crumbling 
churches,  and  old  convents  ; a land  of 


Introduction 


2 


kindly  greetings,  of  extreme  courtesy,  of 
open,  broad  hospitality. 

I have  delighted  my  soul  with  the  sway- 
ing of  the  lilies  in  the  sunlight,  the  rush 
of  the  roses  crowding  over  mouldy  walls, 
the  broad-leaved  palms  cooling  the  shad- 
ows, and  have  wasted  none  of  my  precious 
time  searching  for  the  lizard  and  the  mole 
crawling  at  their  roots. 

Content  with  the  novelty  and  charm  of 
the  picturesque  life  about  me,  I have 
watched  the  naked  children  at  play  and 
the  patient  peon  at  work  ; and  the  haughty 
hidalgo,  armed  and  guarded,  inspecting 
his  plantation  ; and  the  dark-skinned  seno- 
rita  with  her  lips  pressed  close  to  the 
gratings  of  the  confessional ; and  even 
the  stealthy,  furtive  glance  of  the  outlaw, 
without  caring  to  analyze  or  solve  any 
one  of  the  many  social  and  religious 
problems  which  make  these  conditions 
possible. 

It  was  enough  for  me  to  find  the  wild 
life  of  the  Comanche,  the  grand  estate  of 
the  Spanish  Don,  and  the  fragments  of  the 
past  splendor  of  the  ecclesiastical  orders 
existing  side  by  side  with  the  remnant  of 


Introduction 


3 


that  Aztec  civilization  which  fired  the 
Spanish  heart  in  the  old  days  of  the  Con- 
quest. Enough  to  discover  that  in  this 
remnant  there  still  survived  a race  capa- 
ble of  the  highest  culture  and  worthy  of 
the  deepest  study.  A distinct  and  pecul- 
iar people.  An  unselfish,  patient,  tender- 
hearted people,  of  great  personal  beauty, 
courage,  and  refinement.  A people  main- 
taining in  their  every-day  life  an  etiquette 
phenomenal  in  a down-trodden  race ; of- 
fering instantly  to  the  stranger  and  way- 
farer on  the  very  threshold  of  their  adobe 
huts  a hospitality  so  generous,  accompa- 
nied by  a courtesy  so  exquisite,  that  one 
stops  at  the  next  doorway  to  reenjoy  the 
luxury. 

It  was  more  than  enough  to  revel  in  an 
Italian  sun  lighting  up  a semi-tropical 
land ; to  look  up  to  white-capped  peaks 
towering  into  the  blue  ; to  look  down  upon 
wind-swept  plains  encircled  by  ragged 
chains  of  mountains  ; to  catch  the  sparkle 
of  miniature  cities  jeweled  here  and  there 
in  oases  of  olive  and  orange ; and  to  real- 
ize that  to-day,  in  its  varied  scenery,  cos- 
tumes, architecture,  street  life,  canals 


4 


Introduction 


crowded  with  flower  - laden  boats,  mar- 
ket plazas  thronged  with  gayly  dressed 
natives,  faded  church  interiors,  and  aban- 
doned convents,  Mexico  is  the  most  mar- 
vellously picturesque  country  under  the 
sun.  A tropical  V enice  ! a semi  - barbar- 
ous Spain  ! a new  Holy  Land. 

To  study  and  enjoy  this  or  any  other 
people  thoroughly,  one  must  live  in  the 
streets.  A chat  with  the  old  woman  sell- 
ing rosaries  near  the  door  of  the  cathe- 
dral, half  an  hour  spent  with  the  sacristan 
after  morning  mass,  and  a word  now  and 
then  with  the  donkey-boy,  the  water-car- 
rier, and  the  padre,  will  give  you  a better 
idea  of  a town  and  a closer  insight  into 
its  inner  life  than  days  spent  at  the  gov- 
ernor’s palace  or  the  museum. 

If  your  companion  is  a white  umbrella, 
and  if  beneath  its  shelter  you  sit  for  hours 
painting  the  picturesque  bits  that  charm 
your  eye,  you  will  have  hosts  of  lookers- 
on  attracted  by  idle  curiosity.  Many  of 
these  will  prove  good  friends  during  your 
stay,  and  will  vie  with  each  other  in  do- 
ing you  many  little  acts  of  kindness 
which  will  linger  lovingly  in  your  memory 


Introduction 


5 


long  after  you  have  shaken  the  white  dust 
of  their  villages  from  your  feet. 

It  is  in  this  spirit  and  with  this  intent 
that  I ask  you  to  turn  aside  from  the  heat 
and  bustle  of  your  daily  life  long  enough 
to  share  with  me  the  cool  and  quiet  of  my 
white  umbrella  while  it  is  opened  in  Mex- 
ico. 

F.  H.  S. 

New  York,  December,  1888. 


CHAPTER  I. 

A MORNING  IN  GUANAJUATO. 

This  morning  I am  wandering  about 
Guanajuato.  It  is  a grotesque,  quaint  old 
mining  town,  near  the  line  of  the  Mexican 
Central  Railroad,  within  a day’s  journey 
of  the  City  of  Mexico.  I had  arrived  the 
night  before  tired  out,  and  awoke  so  early 
that  the  sun  and  I appeared  on  the  streets 
about  the  same  hour. 

The  air  was  deliciously  cool  and  fra- 
grant, and  shouldering  my  sketch-trap  and 
umbrella  I bent  my  steps  towards  the 
church  of  la  parroquia. 

I had  seen  it  the  night  previous  as  I 
passed  by  in  the  starlight,  and  its  stone 
pillars  and  twisted  iron  railings  so  de- 


8 A White  Umbrella  in  Mex  ico 


lighted  me  that  I spent  half  the  night 
elaborating  its  details  in  my  sleep. 

The  tide  of  worshippers  filling  the 
streets  carried  prayer-books  and  rosaries. 
They  were  evidently  intent  on  early  mass. 
As  for  myself  I was  simply  drifting  about, 
watching  the  people,  making  notes  in  my 
sketch-book,  and  saturating  myself  with 
the  charming  novelty  of  my  surroundings. 

When  I reached  the  small  square  fa- 
cing the  great  green  door  of  the  beautiful 
old  church,  the  golden  sunlight  was  just 
touching  its  quaint  towers,  and  the  stone 
urns  and  crosses  surmounting  the  curious 
pillars  below  were  still  in  shadow  standing 
out  in  dark  relief  against  the  blue  sky  be- 
yond. 

I mingled  with  the  crowd,  followed  into 
the  church,  listened  a while  to  the  ser- 
vice, and  then  returned  to  the  plaza  and 
began  a circuit  of  the  square  that  I might 
select  some  point  of  sight  from  which  I 
could  seize  the  noble  pile  as  a whole,  and 
thus  express  it  within  the  square  of  my 
canvas. 

The  oftener  I walked  around  it,  the 
more  difficult  became  the  problem.  A 


A Morning  in  Guanajuato  9 


dozen  times  I made  the  circuit,  stopping 
pondering,  and  stepping  backwards  and 
sideways  after  the  manner  of  painters 
similarly  perplexed  ; attracting  a curious 
throng,  who  kept  their  eyes  upon  me  very 
much  as  if  they  suspected  I was  either 
slightly  crazed  or  was  about  to  indulge 
in  some  kind  of  heathen  rite  entirely  new 
to  them. 

Finally  it  became  plainly  evident  that 
but  one  point  of  sight  could  be  relied 
upon.  This  centred  in  the  archway  of 
a private  house  immediately  opposite  the 
church.  I determined  to  move  in  and 
take  possession. 

Some  care,  however,  is  necessary  in 
the  inroads  one  makes  upon  a private 
house  in  a Spanish  city.  A watchful  por- 
ter half  concealed  in  the  garden  of  the 
patio  generally  has  his  eye  on  the  gate- 
way, and  overhauls  you  before  you  have 
taken  a dozen  steps  with  a “ Hold , setior  ! 
a quian  bnsca  ustedl"  You  will  also  find 
the  lower  windows  protected  by  iron  rejas, 
through  which,  if  you  are  on  good  terms 
with  the  black  eyes  within,  you  may  per- 
haps kiss  the  tips  of  her  tapering  fingers. 


io  A White  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


There  is  a key  to  the  heart  of  every 
Spaniard  which  has  seldom  failed  me  — 
the  use  of  a little  politeness.  This  al- 
ways engages  his  attention.  Add  to  it  a 
dash  of  ceremony  and  he  is  your  friend 
at  once.  If  you  ask  a Cuban  for  a light, 
he  will  first  remove  his  hat,  then  his  cigar, 
make  you  a low  bow,  and  holding  his 
fragrant  Havana  between  his  thumb  and 
forefinger,  with  the  lighted  end  towards 
himself,  will  present  it  to  you  with  the 
air  of  a grandee  that  is  at  once  graceful 
and  captivating.  If  you  follow  his  ex- 
ample and  remain  bareheaded  until  the 
courtesy  is  complete  he  will  continue  bow- 
ing until  you  are  out  of  sight.  If  you  are 
forgetful,  and  with  thoughts  intent  upon 
your  own  affairs  merely  thank  him  and 
pass  on,  he  will  bless  himself  that  he  is 
not  as  other  men  are,  and  dismiss  you 
from  his  mind  as  one  of  those  outside  bar- 
barians whom  it  is  his  duty  to  forget. 

In  Mexico  the  people  are  still  more 
punctilious.  To  pass  an  acquaintance  on 
the  street  without  stopping,  hat  in  hand, 
and  inquiring  one  by  one  for  his  wife, 
children,  and  the  various  members  of  his 


A Morning  in  Guanajuato  / / 

household,  and  then  waiting  patiently  until 
he  goes  through  the  same  family  list  for 
you,  is  an  unforgivable  offence  among 
friends.  Even  the  native  Indians  are  dis- 
tinguished by  an  elaboration  of  manner  in 
the  courtesies  they  constantly  extend  to 
each  other  noted  in  no  other  serving  peo- 
ple. 

An  old  woman,  barefooted,  ragged,  and 
dust  begrimed,  leaning  upon  a staff, 
once  preceded  me  up  a narrow,  crooked 
street.  She  looked  like  an  animated  fish- 
net hung  on  a fence  to  dry,  so  ragged  and 
emaciated  was  she.  A young  Indian  one 
half  her  age  crossed  her  steps  as  she 
turned  into  a side  street.  Instantly  he 
removed  his  hat  and  saluted  her  as  if  she 
had  been  the  Queen  of  Sheba.  “A  los 
pies  de  usted , senora  ” (At  your  feet,  lady), 
I heard  him  say  as  I passed.  “ Bese  usted 
las  manos  ” (My  hands  for  your  kisses, 
senor),  replied  she,  with  a bow  which 
would  have  become  a duchess. 

I have  lived  long  enough  in  Spanish 
countries  to  adapt  my  own  habits  and 
regulate  my  own  conduct  to  the  require- 
ments of  these  customs ; and  so  when 


12  A White  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


this  morning  in  Guanajuato,  I discovered 
that  my  only  hope  lay  within  the  archway 
of  the  patio  of  this  noble  house,  at  once 
the  residence  of  a man  of  wealth  and  of 
rank,  I forthwith  succumbed  to  the  law  of 
the  country,  with  a result  that  doubly  paid 
me  for  all  the  precious  time  it  took  to  ac- 
complish it ; precious,  because  the  whole 
front  of  the  beautiful  old  church  with  its 
sloping  flight  of  semicircular  stone  steps 
was  now  bathed  in  sunlight,  and  a few 
hours  later  the  hot  sun  climbing  to  the  ze- 
nith would  round  the  corner  of  the  tower, 
leave  it  in  shadow,  and  so  spoil  its  effect. 

Within  this  door  sat  a fat,  oily  porter, 
rolling  cigarettes.  I approached  him, 
handed  him  my  card,  and  bade  him  con- 
vey it  to  his  master  together  with  my  most 
distinguished  considerations,  and  inform 
him  that  I was  a painter  from  a distant 
city  by  the  sea,  and  that  I craved  permis- 
sion to  erect  my  easel  within  the  gates  of 
his  palace  and  from  this  coign  of  vantage 
paint  the  most  sacred  church  across  the 
way. 

Before  I had  half  examined  the  square 
of  the  patio  with  its  Moorish  columns  and 


A Morning  in  Guanajuato  13 


arches  and  tropical  garden  filled  with 
flowers,  I heard  quick  footsteps  above 
and  caught  sight  of  a group  of  gentlemen 
preceded  by  an  elderly  man  with  bristling 
white  hair,  walking  rapidly  along  the 
piazza  of  the  second  or  living  floor  of  the 
house. 

In  a moment  more  the  whole  party  de- 
scended the  marble  staircase  and  ap- 
proached me.  The  elderly  man  with  the 
white  hair  held  in  his  hand  my  card. 

“ With  the  greatest  pleasure,  senor,” 
he  said  graciously.  “You  can  use  my 
doorway  or  any  portion  of  my  house ; it 
is  all  yours  ; the  view  from  the  balcony 
above  is  much  more  extensive.  Will  you 
not  ascend  and  see  for  yourself  ? But  let 
me  present  you  to  my  friends  and  insist 
that  you  first  come  to  breakfast.” 

But  I did  not  need  the  balcony,  and  it 
was  impossible  for  me  to  share  his  coffee. 
The  sun  was  moving,  the  day  half  gone, 
my  stay  in  Guanajuato  limited.  If  he 
would  permit  me  to  sit  within  the  shadow 
of  his  gate  I would  ever  bless  his  gener- 
osity, and,  the  sketch  finished,  would  do 
myself  the  honor  of  appearing  before  him. 


14  A White  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


Half  a dozen  times  during  the  progress 
of  this  picture  the  whole  party  ran  down 
the  staircase,  napkins  in  hand,  broke  out 
into  rapturous  exclamations  over  its  de- 
velopment, and  insisted  that  some  sort  of 
nourishment,  either  solid  or  fluid,  was  ab- 
solutely necessary  for  the  preservation  of 
my  life.  Soon  the  populace  began  to 
take  an  interest,  and  so  blocked  up  the 
gateway  that  I could  no  longer  follow  the 
outlines  of  the  church.  I remonstrated, 
and  appealed  to  my  host.  He  grasped 
the  situation,  gave  a rapid  order  to  the 
porter,  who  disappeared  and  almost  im- 
mediately reappeared  with  an  officer  who 
saluted  my  host  with  marked  respect. 
Five  minutes  later  a squad  of  soldiers 
cleared  out  the  archway  and  the  street  in 
front,  formed  two  files,  and  mounted  guard 
until  my  work  was  over.  I began  to  won- 
der what  manner  of  man  was  this  who  gave 
away  palaces  and  commanded  armies  ! 

At  last  the  sketch  was  finished,  and 
leaving  the  porter  in  charge  of  my  traps  I 
seized  the  canvas,  mounted  the  winding 
staircase,  and  presented  myself  at  the 
large  door  opening  on  the  balcony.  At 


A Morning  in  Guanajuato  15 


sight  of  me  not  only  my  host,  but  all  his 
guests,  rose  to  their  feet  and  welcomed 
me  heartily, 
crowding  about 
the  chair 
against  which 
I propped  the 
picture. 

Then  a door 
in  the  rear  of 
the  breakfast- 
room  opened, 
and  the  senora 
and  her  two 
pretty  daugh- 
ters glided  in 
for  a peep  at 
the  work  of  the 
morning,  de- 
claring in  one 
breath  that  it 
was  very  wonderful  that  so  many  colors 
could  be  put  together  in  so  short  a time ; 
that  I must  be  muy  fatigado,  and  that 
they  would  serve  coffee  for  my  refresh- 
ment at  once. 

This  to  a tramp,  remember,  discovered 


r 6 A White  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


on  a doorstep  but  a few  hours  before,  with 
designs  on  the  hallway  ! 

This  done  I must  see  the  garden  and 
the  parrots  in  the  swinging  cages  and  the 
miniature  Chihuahua  dogs,  and  last  I 
must  ascend  the  flight  of  brick  steps  lead- 
ing to  the  roof  and  see  the  view  from  the 
tip-top  of  the  house.  It  was  when  lean- 
ing over  the  projecting  iron  rail  of  this 
lookout,  with  the  city  below  me  and  the 
range  of  hills  above  dotted  with  mining 
shafts,  that  I made  bold  to  ask  my  host  a 
direct  question. 

“ Senor,  it  is  easy  for  you  to  see  what 
my  life  is  and  how  I fill  it.  Tell  me,  what 
manner  of  man  are  you  ? ” 

“ Con  gusto,  senor.  I am  un  ?ninero. 
The  shaft  you  see  to  the  right  is  the  en- 
trance to  my  silver  mine.  I am  un  agricul- 
tor.  Behind  yon  mountain  lies  my  haci- 
enda, and  I am  un  bienhcchor  (a  benefac- 
tor). The  long  white  building  you  see  to 
the  left  is  the  hospital  which  I built  and 
gave  to  the  poor  of  my  town.” 

When  I bade  good-by  to  my  miner, 
benefactor,  and  friend,  I called  a sad-faced 


A Morning  in  Guanajuato  !J 


Indian  boy  who  had  watched  me  intently 
while  at  work,  and  who  waited  patiently 
until  I reappeared.  To  him  I consigned 
my  “trap,”  with  the  exception  of  my  um- 
brella staff,  which  serves  me  as  a cane, 
and  together  we  lost  ourselves  in  the 
crowded  thoroughfare. 

“ What  is  your  name,  muchacho  ?"  I 
asked. 

“ Matfas,  senor.” 

“ And  what  do  you  do  ? ” 

“ Nothing.” 

“ All  day  ? ” 

“ All  day  and  all  night,  senor.” 

Here  at  least  was  a fellow  Bohemian 
with  whom  I could  loaf  to  my  heart’s  con- 
tent. I looked  him  over  carefully.  He 
had  large  dark  eyes  with  drooping  lids, 
which  lent  an  air  of  extreme  sadness  to 
his  handsome  face.  His  curly  black  hair 
was  crowded  under  his  straw  sombrero, 
with  a few  stray  locks  pushed  through  the 
crown.  His  shirt  was  open  at  the  throat, 
and  his  leathern  breeches,  reaching  to  his 
knee,  were  held  above  his  hips  by  a rag 
of  a red  sash  edged  with  frayed  silk 
fringe.  Upon  his  feet  were  the  sandals 


1 8 A White  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


of  the  country.  Whenever  he  spoke  he 
touched  his  hat. 

“ And  do  you  know  Guanajuato  ? ” I 
continued. 

“ Every  stone,  senor.” 

“ Show  it  me.” 

In  the  old  days  this  crooked  old  city  of 
Guanajuato  was  known  as  Quajiashuato , 
which  in  the  Tarascan  tongue  means  the 
“ Hill  of  the  Frogs  ; ” not  from  the  prev- 
alence of  that  toothsome  morsel,  but  be- 
cause the  Tarascan  Indians,  according  to 
Janvier,  “found  here  a huge  stone  in  the 
shape  of  a frog,  which  they  worshipped.” 
The  city  at  an  elevation  of  6,800  feet  is 
crowded  into  a narrow,  deep  ravine,  ter- 
raced on  each  side  to  give  standing  room 
for  its  houses.  The  little  Moorish  look- 
ing town  of  Marfil  stands  guard  at  the 
entrance  of  the  narrow  gorge,  its  heavy 
stone  houses  posted  quite  into  the  road, 
and  so  blocking  it  up  that  the  trains  of 
mules  must  needs  dodge  their  way  in  and 
out  to  reach  the  railroad  below. 

As  you  pass  up  the  ravine  you  notice 
that  through  its  channel  runs  a sluggish, 
muddy  stream,  into  which  is  emptied  all 


A Morning  in  Guanajuato  19 


the  filth  of  the  City  of  Frogs  above,  as 
well  as  all  the  pumpings  and  waste  wash- 
ings of  the  silver  mines  which  line  its 
sides  below. 

Into  this  mire  droves  of  hogs  wallow 
in  the  hot  sun,  the  mud  caking  to  their 
sides  and  backs.  This,  Matt'as  tells  me, 
their  owners  religiously  wash  off  once  a 
week  to  save  the  silver  which  it  contains. 
As  it  is  estimated  that  the  summer  fresh- 
ets have  scoured  from  the  bed  of  this 
brook  millions  of  dollars  of  silver  since 
the  discovery  of  these  mines  in  1548,  the 
owners  cannot  be  blamed  for  scraping 
these  beasts  clean,  now  that  their  output 
is  reduced  to  a mere  bagatelle  of  six  mil- 
lion dollars  annually. 

On  you  climb,  looking  down  upon  the 
houses  just  passed  on  the  street  below, 
until  you  round  the  great  building  of  the 
Alhondiga  de  Granaditas,  captured  by 
the  patriot  priest  Hidalgo  in  1810,  and 
still  holding  the  iron  spike  which  spitted 
his  head  the  year  following.  Then  on  to 
the  Plaza  de  Mejia  Mora,  a charming 
garden  park  in  the  centre  of  the  city. 

This  was  my  route,  and  here  I sat  down 


20  A White  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


on  a stone  bench  surrounded  by  flowers, 
waving  palms,  green  grass,  and  pretty 
senoritas,  and  listened  to  the  music  of  a 


very  creditable  band  perched  in  a sort  of 
Chinese  pagoda  in  the  park’s  centre. 

Matfas  was  equal  to  the  occasion.  At 
my  request  he  ran  to  the  corner  and 
brought  me  some  oranges,  a pot  of  coffee, 
and  a roll,  which  I shared  with  him  on 
the  marble  slab  much  to  the  amusement 
of  the  bystanders,  who  could  not  under- 
stand why  I preferred  lunching  with  a 


A Morning  in  Guanajuato 


21 


street  gamin  on  a park  bench  to  dining 
with  the  elite  of  Guanajuato  at  the  cafe 
opposite.  The  solution  was  easy.  We 
were  two  tramps  with  nothing  to  do. 

Next  Matfas  pointed  out  all  the  celeb- 
rities as  they  strolled  through  the  plaza  — 
the  bishop  coming  from  mass,  the  gov- 
ernor and  his  secretary,  and  the  beautiful 
Senorita  Doha  Maria,  who  had  been  mar- 
ried the  month  before  with  great  pomp  at 
the  cathedral. 

“ And  what  church  is  that  over  the  wray 
where  I see  the  people  kneeling  outside, 
Matfas  ? ” 

“The  Iglesia  de  San  Diego,  senor.  It 
is  Holy  Thursday.  To-day  no  one  rides  ; 
all  the  horses  are  stabled.  The  senoritas 
walk  to  church  and  wear  black  veils,  and 
that  is  W'hy  so  many  are  in  the  streets. 
To-day  and  to-morrow  the  mines  are 
closed  and  all  the  miners  are  out  in  the 
sunlight.” 

While  Matfas  rattled  on  there  swept  by 
me  a cloud  of  lace  encircling  a bewitch- 
ing face,  from  out  which  snapped  two 
wicked  black  eyes.  The  Mexican  beau- 
ties have  more  vivacity  than  their  cousins 


22  A White  Umbrella,  in  Mexico 


the  Spaniards.  It  maybe  that  the  Indian 
blood  which  runs  in  their  veins  gives 
them  a piquancy  which  reminds  you  more 
of  the  sparkle  of  the  French  grisette  than 
of  the  languid  air  common  to  almost  all 
high-bred  Spanish  women. 

She,  too,  twisted  her  pretty  head,  and 
a light  laugh  bubbled  out  from  between 
her  red  lips  and  perfect  teeth,  as  she 
caught  sight  of  the  unusual  spectacle  of  a 
foreigner  in  knickerbockers  breakfasting 
in  the  open  air  with  a street  tramp  in  san- 
dals. 

Seeing  me  divide  an  orange  with  Ma- 
tfas  she  touched  the  arm  of  her  compan- 
ion, an  elderly  woman  carrying  a great 
fan,  pointed  me  out,  and  then  they  both 
laughed  immoderately.  I arose  gravely, 
and,  removing  my  hat,  saluted  them  with 
all  the  deference  and  respect  I could  con- 
centrate into  one  prolonged  curve  of  my 
spinal  column.  At  this  the  duenna  looked 
grave  and  half  frightened,  but  the  seno- 
rita  returned  to  me  only  smiles,  moved 
her  fan  gracefully,  and  entered  the  door 
of  the  church  across  the  way. 

“ The  caballero  will  now  see  the 


A Morning  in  Guanajuato  2 3 


church  ? ” said  the  boy  slowly,  as  if  the 
incident  ended  the  breakfast. 

Later  I did,  and  from  behind  a pillar 
where  I had  hidden  myself  away  from  the 
sacristan  who  frowned  at  my  sketch-book, 
and  where  I could  sketch  and  watch  un- 
observed the  penitents  on  their  knees 
before  the  altar,  I caught  sight  of  my 
senorita  snapping  her  eyes  in  the  same 
mischievous  way,  and  talking  with  her 
fan,  as  I have  often  seen  the  Spanish  wo- 
men do  at  the  Tacon  in  Havana.  It  was 
not  to  me  this  time,  but  to  a devout 
young  fellow  kneeling  across  the  aisle. 
And  so  she  prayed  with  her  lips,  and 
talked  with  her  heart  and  fan,  and  when 
it  was  all  thus  silently  arranged  between 
them,  she  bowed  to  the  altar,  and  glided 
from  the  church  without  one  glance  at 
poor  me  sketching  behind  the  column. 
When  I looked  up  again  her  lover  had 
vanished. 

Oh ! the  charm  of  this  semi-tropical 
Spanish  life!  The  balconies  above  the 
patios  trellised  with  flowers ; the  swing- 
ing hammocks ; the  slow  plash  of  the 
fountains ; the  odor  of  jasmine  wet  with 


24  A White  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


dew;  the  low  thrum  of  guitar  and  click 
of  castanet ; the  soft  moonlight  half-re- 
vealing the  muffled  figures  in  lace  and 
cloak.  It  is  the  same  old  story,  and  yet  it 
seems  to  me  it  is  told  in  Spanish  lands 
more  delightfully  and  with  more  romance, 
color,  and  mystery  than  elsewhere  on  the 
globe. 

Mati'as  woke  me  from  my  revery. 

“ Senor,  vespers  in  the  cathedral  at 
four.” 

So  we  wandered  out  into  the  sunlight, 
and  joined  the  throng  in  holiday  attire, 
drifting  with  the  current  towards  the 
church  of  San  Francisco:  As  we  entered 

the  side  door  to  avoid  the  crowd,  I stopped 
to  examine  a table  piled  high  with  rosa- 
ries and  charms,  presided  over  by  a 
weather-beaten  old  woman,  and  covered 
with  what  was  once  an  altar  cloth  of  great 
beauty,  embroidered  in  silver  thread  and 
silk.  It  was  just  faded  and  dingy  enough 
to  be  harmonious,  and  just  ragged  enough 
to  be  interesting.  In  the  bedecking  of 
the  sacred  edifice  for  the  festival  days 
then  approaching,  the  old  wardrobes  of 
the  sacristy  had  been  ransacked,  and  this 


A Morning  in  Guanajuato  25 


piece  coming  to  light  had  been  thrown 
over  the  plain  table  as  a background  to 
the  religious  knickknacks. 

Instantly  a dozen  schemes  to  possess 
it  ran  through  my  head.  After  all  sorts 
of  propositions,  embracing  another  cloth, 
the  price  of  two  new  ones,  and  a fresh 
table  thrown  in,  I was  confronted  with 
this  proposition  : — 

“You  buy  everything  upon  it,  senor, 
and  you  can  take  the  table  and  covering 
with  you.” 

The  service  had  already  commenced. 
I could  smell  the  burning  incense,  and 
hear  the  tinkling  of  the  altar  bell  and  the 
burst  from  the  organ.  The  door  by  which 
we  entered  opened  into  a long  passage 
running  parallel  with  the  church,  and  con- 
necting with  the  sacristy  which  ran  imme- 
diately behind  the  altar.  The  dividing 
wall  between  this  and  the  altar  side  of 
the  church  was  a thin  partition  of  wood, 
with  grotesque  openings  near  the  ceiling- 
Through  these  the  sounds  of  the  service 
were  so  distinct  that  every  word  could 
be  understood.  These  openings  proved 
to  be  between  the  backs  of  certain  saints 


26  A White  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


and  carvings,  overlaid  with  gilt  and  form- 
ing the  reredos. 

Within  the  sacristy,  and  within  five  feet 
of  the  bishop  who  was  conducting  the 
service,  and  entirely  undisturbed  by  our 
presence,  sat  four  hungry  padres  at  a 
comfortable  luncheon.  Each  holy  father 
had  a bottle  of  red  wine  at  his  plate. 
Every  few  minutes  a priest  would  come 
in  from  the  church  side  of  the  partition, 
the  sacristan  would  remove  his  vestments, 
lay  them  away  in  the  wardrobes,  and 
either  robe  him  anew,  or  hand  him  his 
shovel  hat  and  cane.  During  the  process 
they  all  chatted  together  in  the  most  un- 
concerned way  possible,  only  lowering 
their  voices  when  the  pauses  in  the  service 
required  it. 

It  may  have  been  that  the  spiritual 
tasks  of  the  day  were  so  prolonged  and 
continuous  that  there  was  no  time  for  the 
material,  and  that  it  was  either  here  in 
the  sacristy  or  go  hungry.  Or  perhaps 
it  lifted  for  me  one  corner  of  the  sheet 
which  covers  the  dead  body  of  the  reli- 
gion of  Mexico. 

These  corners,  however,  I will  not 


A Morning  in  Guanajuato  27 


uncover.  The  sun  shines  for  us  all ; the 
shadows  are  cool  and  inviting;  the  flow- 
ers are  free  and  fragrant ; the  people  cour- 
teous and  hospitable  beyond  belief ; the 
land  the  most  picturesque  and  enchant- 
ing. 

When  I look  into  Matfas’  sad  eyes  and 
think  to  what  a life  of  poverty  and  suffer- 
ing he  is  doomed,  and  what  his  people 
have  endured  for  ages,  these  ghosts  of 
revolution,  misrule,  cruelty,  superstition, 
and  want  rise  up  and  confront  me,  and 
although  I know  that  beneath  this  charm 
of  atmosphere,  color,  and  courtesy  there 
lurks,  like  the  deadly  miasma  of  the  ra- 
vine, lulled  to  sleep  by  the  sunlight,  much 
of  degradation,  injustice,  and  crime,  still  I 
will  probe  none  of  it.  So  I fill  Matfas’ 
hand  full  of  silver  and  copper  coins,  and 
his  sad  eyes  full  of  joyful  tears,  and  as  I 
descend  the  rocky  hill  in  the  evening  glow, 
and  look  up  to  the  great  prison  of  Guan- 
ajuato with  its  roof  fringed  with  rows  of 
prisoners  manacled  together,  and  given 
this  hour  of  fresh  air  because  of  the  sa- 
credness of  the  day,  I forget  their  chains 
and  the  intrigue  and  treachery  which 


28  A White  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


forged  many  of  them,  and  see  only  the 
purple  city  swimming  in  the  golden  light, 
and  the  deep  shadows  of  the  hills  be- 
hind it. 


CHAPTER  II. 


AFTER  DARK  IN 
SILAO. 

“Caballero!  A 
dondc  va  listed  / ” 
“ To  Silao,  to 
see  the  cathedral 
lighted.” 

“Alone?  ” 

“ Cierto  ! un- 
less you  go.” 

I was  half  way 
across  the  open 
space  dividing  the  railroad  from  the  city 
of  Silao  when  I was  brought  to  a stand- 
still by  this  inquiry.  The  questioner  was 
my  friend  Morgan,  an  Englishman,  who 
had  lived  ten  years  in  the  country  and 
knew  it  thoroughly. 

He  was  placed  here  in  charge  of  the 
property  of  the  road  the  day  the  last  spike 
was  driven.  A short,  thickset,  clear  blue- 
eyed, and  brown -bearded  Briton,  whose 
word  was  law,  and  whose  brawny  arm 


jo  A White  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


enforced  it.  He  had  a natural  taste  for 
my  work  and  we  soon  drifted  together. 

“ Better  take  this,”  he  continued,  loos- 
ing his  belt  and  handing  me  its  contents 
— a row  of  cartridges  and  a revolver. 
“Never  carried  one  in  my  life.” 

“ Well,  you  will  now.” 

“ Do  you  mean  to  say,  Morgan,  that  I 
cannot  cross  this  flat  plain,  hardly  a quar- 
ter of  a mile  wide,  and  enter  the  city  in 
safety  without  being  armed  ? ” 

“ I mean  to  say,  mi  amigo , that  the 
mountains  around  Silao  are  infested  with 
bandits,  outlaws,  and  thieves ; that  these 
fellows  prowl  at  night ; that  you  are  a 
stranger  and  recognized  at  sight  as  an 
American  ; that  twenty-four  hours  after 
your  arrival  these  facts  were  quietly  whis- 
pered among  the  fraternity ; that  every 
article  of  value  you  have  on  down  to  your 
collar-button  is  already  a subject  of  dis- 
cussion and  appraisement  ; that  there  are 
nine  chances  to  ten  that  the  blind  crip- 
ple who  sold  you  dulces  this  morning  at 
the  train  was  quietly  making  an  inventory 
of  your  valuables,  and  that,  had  he  been 
recognized  by  the  guard,  his  legs  would 


After  Dark  in  Silao  31 

have  untwisted  themselves  in  a minute ; 
that  after  dark  in  Silao  is  quite  a differ- 
ent thing  from  under  the  gaslight  in  Broad- 
way ; and  that  unless  you  go  armed  you 
cannot  go  alone.” 

“ But,  Morgan,  there  is  not  a tree,  stone, 
stump,  or  building  in  sight  big  enough  to 
screen  a rat  behind.  You  can  see  even 
in  the  starlight  the  entrance  to  the  wide 
street  leading  to  the  cathedral.” 

“ Make  no  mistake,  senor,  these  devils 
start  up  out  of  the  ground.  Strap  this 
around  you  or  stay  here.  Can  you  see 
my  quarters  — the  small  house  near  the 
Estacion  ? Do  you  notice  the  portico 
with  the  sloping  roof  ? Well,  my  friend,  I 
have  sat  on  that  portico  in  the  cool  of  the 
evening  and  looked  across  this  very  plain 
and  heard  cries  for  help,  and  the  next 
morning  at  dawn  have  seen  the  crowd 
gathered  about  a poor  devil  with  a gash 
in  his  back  the  length  of  your  hand.” 

As  we  walked  through  the  dust  towards 
the  city,  Morgan  continued  : — 

“ The  government  are  not  altogether  to 
blame  for  this  state  of  things.  They  have 
done  their  best  to  break  it  up,  and  they 


A White  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


have  succeeded  to  a great  extent.  In 
Celaya  alone  the  jefe  politico  showed  me 
the  records  where  he  had  shot  one  hun- 
dred and  thirteen  bandits  in  less  than  two 
years.  He  does  not  waste  his  time  over 
judge  or  jury:  strings  them  along  in  a 
row  within  an  hour  after  they  are  caught 
plundering,  then  leaves  them  two  days 
above  ground  as  a warning  to  those  who 
get  away.  Within  a year  to  cross  from 
Silao  to  Leon  without  a guard  was  as 
much  as  your  life  was  worth.  The  dili- 
gence was  robbed  almost  daily.  This  be- 
gan to  be  a matter  of  course  and  passen- 
gers reduced  their  luggage  to  the  clothes 
they  stood  in.  Finally  the  thieves  confis- 
cated these.  Two  years  ago,  old  Don 
Palacio  del  Monte,  whose  hacienda  is 
within  five  miles  of  here,  started  in  a dili- 
gence one  morning  at  daylight  with  his 
wife  and  two  daughters  and  a young 
Mexican  named  Marquando,  to  attend  a 
wedding  feast  at  a neighboring  planta- 
tion only  a few  miles  distant.  They  were 
the  only  occupants.  An  hour  after  sun- 
rise, while  dragging  up  a steep  hill,  the 
coach  came  to  a halt,  the  driver  was  pulled 


After  Dark  in  Silao 


33 


down  and  bound,  old  Palacio  and  Mar- 
quando  covered  with  carbines,  and  every 
rag  of  clothing  stripped  from  the  entire 
party.  Then  they  were  politely  informed 
by  the  chief,  who  was  afterwards  caught 
and  shot,  and  who  turned  out  to  be  the 
renegade  son  of  the  owner  of  the  very 
hacienda  where  the  wedding  festivities 
were  to  be  celebrated,  to  go  home  and 
inform  their  friends  to  bring  more  bag- 
gage in  the  future  or  some  of  them 
might  catch  cold ! 

“ Marquando  told  me  of  it  the  week 
after  it  occurred.  He  was  still  suffering 
from  the  mortification.  His  description 
of  the  fat  driver  crawling  up  into  his 
seat,  and  of  the  courteous  old  Mexican 
standing  in  the  sunlight  looking  like  a 
scourged  mediaeval  saint,  and  of  the  dig- 
nified wave  of  his  hand  as  he  said  to  him, 
‘After  you,  senor,’  before  climbing  up 
beside  the  driver,  was  delightful.  1 
laughed  over  it  for  a week.” 

“What  became  of  the  senora  and  the 
girls  ? ” I asked. 

“ Oh,  they  slid  in  through  the  opposite 
door  of  the  coach,  and  remained  in  seclu- 


34  A While  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


sion  until  the  driver  reached  an  adobe 
hut  and  demanded  of  a peon  family 
enough  clothes  to  get  the  party  into  one 
of  the  outbuildings  of  the  hacienda. 
There  they  were  rescued  by  their  friends.” 
“ And  Marquando  ! ” I asked,  “ did  he 
appear  at  the  wedding  ? ” 

“ No.  That  was  the  hardest  part  of  it. 
After  the  ladies  were  smuggled  into  the 
house,  Don  Palacio,  by  that  time  dec- 
orated with  a straw  mat  and  a sombrero, 
called  Marquando  aside.  ‘ Senor,’  he 
said  with  extreme  gravity  and  deep  pa- 
thos, ‘ after  the  events  of  the  morning  it 
will  be  impossible  for  us  to  recognize 
each  other  again.  I entertain  for  you 
personally  the  most  profound  respect. 
Will  you  do  me  the  great  kindness  of 
never  speaking  to  me  or  any  member  of 
my  family  after  to-day  ? ’ Marquando 
bowed  and  withdrew.  A few  months 
later  he  was  in  Leon.  The  governor  gave 
a ball.  As  he  entered  the  room  he  caught 
sight  of  Don  Palacio  surrounded  by  his 
wife  and  daughters.  The  old  Mexican 
held  up  his  hand,  the  palm  towards  Mar- 
quando like  a barrier.  My  friend  stopped, 


After  Dark  in  Silao 


35 


bowed  to  the  floor,  mounted  his  horse, 
and  left  the  city.  It  cut  him  deeply  too, 
for  he  is  a fine  young  fellow  and  one  of 
the  girls  liked  him.” 

We  had  crossed  the  open  space  and 


were  entering  the  city.  Low  buildings 
connected  by  long  white  adobe  walls, 
against  which  grew  prickly  pears,  strag- 
gled out  into  the  dusty  plateau.  Croon- 
ing over  earthen  pots  balanced  on  smoul- 
dering embers  sat  old  hags,  surrounded 
by  swarthy  children  watching  the  prepara- 
tion of  their  evening  meal.  Turning  the 
sharp  angle  of  the  street,  we  stumbled  over 


36  A White  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


a group  of  peons  squatting  on  the  side- 
walk, their  backs  to  the  wall,  muffled  to 
their  eyes  in  their  zarapes,  some  asleep, 
others  motionless,  following  us  with  their 
eyes.  Soon  the  spire  of  la  parroquia 
loomed  up  in  the  starlight,  its  outlines 
brought  out  into  uncertain  relief  by  the 
flickering  light  of  the  torches  blazing  in 
the  market-place  below.  Here  Morgan 
stopped,  and  pointing  to  a slit  of  an  alley 
running  between  two  buildings  and  widen- 
ing out  into  a square  court,  said  : — 

“ This  is  the  entrance  to  an  old  patio 
long  since  abandoned.  Some  years  ago 
a gang  of  cutthroats  used  it  to  hide  their 
plunder.  You  can  see  how  easy  it  would 
be  for  one  of  these  devils  to  step  behind 
you,  put  a stiletto  between  your  shoulder- 
blades,  and  bundle  you  in  out  of  sight.” 

I crossed  over  and  took  the  middle  of 
the  street.  Morgan  laughed. 

“ You  are  perfectly  safe  with  me,”  he 
continued,  “for  I am  known  everywhere 
and  would  be  missed.  You  might  not. 
Then  I adopt  the  custom  of  the  country 
and  carry  an  extra  cartridge,  and  they 
know  it.  But  you  would  be  safe  here  any 


After  Dark  in  Silao 


37 


way.  It  is  only  the  outskirts  of  these 
Mexican  towns  that  are  dangerous  to 
stroll  around  in  after  dark.” 

There  is  a law  in  Mexico  called  the 
ley  dc  fuego  — the  law  of  fire.  It  is  very 
easily  understood.  If  a convict  breaks 
away  from  the  chain  gang  he  takes  his 
life  in  his  hands.  Instantly  every  car- 
bine in  the  mounted  guard  is  levelled,  and 
a rattling  fire  is  kept  up  until  he  either 
drops,  riddled  by  balls,  or  escapes  unhurt 
in  the  crevices  of  the  foot-hills.  Once 
away  he  is  safe  and  cannot  be  rearrested 
for  the  same  crime.  Silao  has  a number 
of  these  birds  of  freedom,  and  to  their 
credit  be  it  said,  they  are  eminently  re- 
spectable citizens.  If  he  is  overhauled 
by  a ball  the  pursuing  squad  detail  a 
brace  of  convicts  to  dig  a hole  in  the 
softest  ground  within  reach,  and  a rude 
wooden  cross  the  next  day  tells  the 
whole  story. 

If  a brigand  has  a misunderstanding 
with  a citizen  regarding  the  ownership  of 
certain  personal  effects,  the  exclusive 
property  of  the  citizen,  and  the  brigand 
in  the  heat  of  the  debate  becomes  care- 


)8  A White  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


less  in  the  use  of  his  firearms,  the  same 
wooden  cross  announces  the  fact  with  an 
emphasis  that  is  startling.  Occurrences 
like  these  have  been  so  frequent  in  the 
past  that  the  country  around  Silao  reminds 
one  of  an  abandoned  telegraph  system, 
with  nothing  standing  but  the  poles  and 
cross-pieces. 

Morgan  imparted  this  last  information 
from  one  of  the  stone  seats  in  the  alameda 
adjoining  the  church  of  Santiago,  which 
we  had  reached  and  where  we  sat  quietly 
smoking,  surrounded  by  throngs  of  people 
pushing  their  way  towards  the  open  door 
of  the  sacred  edifice.  We  threw  away 
our  cigarettes  and  followed  the  crowd. 

It  was  the  night  of  Good  Friday,  and 
the  interior  was  ablaze  with  the  light  of 
thousands  of  wax  candles  suspended 
from  the  vaulted  roof  by  fine  wires,  which 
swayed  with  the  air  from  the  great  doors, 
while  scattered  through  this  sprinkling 
of  stars  glistened  sheets  of  gold  leaf 
strung  on  threads  of  silk.  Ranged  along 
the  sides  of  the  church  upon  a ledge  just 
above  the  heads  of  the  people  sparkled  a 
curious  collection  of  cut-glass  bottles,  de- 


After  Dirk  in  Silao  39 

canters,  dishes,  toilet  boxes,  and  goblets 
— in  fact,  every  conceivable  variety  of 
domestic  glass.  Behind  these  in  small 
oil  cups  floated  burned  ends  of  candles 
and  tapers.  In  the  sacristy,  upon  a rude 
bier  covered  by  an  embroidered  sheet,  lay 
the  wooden  image  of  the  dead  Christ, 
surrounded  by  crowds  of  peons  and  Mexi- 
cans passing  up  to  kiss  the  painted  wounds 
and  drop  a few  centavos  for  their  sins  and 
shortcomings. 

As  we  passed  out  into  the  fresh  night 
air,  the  glare  of  a torch  fell  upon  an  old 
man  seated  by  a table  selling  rosaries. 
Morgan  leaned  against  one  of  the  pillars 
of  the  railing  surrounding  the  court, 
watched  the  traffic  go  on  for  a few  min- 
utes, and  then  pointing  to  the  entrance  of 
the  church  through  which  streamed  the 
great  flood  of  light,  said  : — 

“ Into  that  open  door  goes  all  the  loose 
money  of  Mexico.” 

When  we  reached  the  plaza  the  people 
still  thronged  the  streets.  Venders  sold 
dulces,  fruits,  candles,  and  the  thousand 
and  one  knickknacks  bought  in  holiday 
times  ; torches  stuck  in  the  ground  on 


40  A While  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


high  poles  flared  over  the  alameda ; groups 
of  natives  smoking  cigarettes  chatted 
gayly  near  the  fountain  ; while  lovers  in 
pairs  disported  themselves  after  the  man- 
ner of  their  kind  under  the  trees.  One 
young  Indian  girl  and  her  dusky  Caballero 
greatly  interested  me.  Nothing  seemed 
to  disturb  them.  They  cooed  away  in 
the  full  glare  of  a street  lantern  as  un- 
conscious and  unconcerned  as  if  a roof 
sheltered  them.  He  had  spread  his  blan- 
ket so  as  to  protect  her  from  the  cold 
stone  bench.  It  was  not  a very  wide  za- 
rape,  and  yet  there  was  room  enough  for 
two. 

The  poverty  of  the  pair  was  unmis- 
takable. A straw  sombrero,  cotton  shirt, 
trousers,  and  sandals  completed  his  out- 
fit, a chemise,  blue  skirt,  scarlet  sash, 
and  rebozo  twisted  about  her  throat  her 
own.  This  humble  raiment  was  clean 
and  fresh,  and  the  red  rose  tucked  coquet- 
tishly  among  the  braids  of  her  purple- 
black  hair  was  just  what  was  wanted  to 
make  it  picturesque. 

Both  were  smoking  the  same  cigarette 
and  laughing  between  each  puff,  he  pro- 


After  Dark  in  Silao 


4i 


testing  that  she  should  have  two  whiffs 
to  his  one,  at  which  there  would  be  a lit- 
tle kittenish  spatting,  ending  in  his  having 
his  own  way  and  kissing  her  two  cheeks 
for  punishment. 

With  us,  some  love  affairs  end  in  smoke  ; 
here  they  seem  to  thrive  upon  it. 

Morgan,  however,  did  not  seem  to  ap- 
preciate the  love-making.  He  was  impa- 
tient to  return  to  the  station,  for  it  was 
nearly  midnight. 

“ If  you  are  going  to  supervise  all  the 
love  affairs  in  Silao  you  might  as  well 
make  a night  of  it,”  he  laughed.  So  we 
turned  from  the  plaza,  entered  a broad 
street,  and  followed  along  a high  wall  sur- 
rounding a large  house,  in  reality  the  pal- 
ace of  Manuel  Gonzalez,  formerly  Presi- 
dent of  the  Republic.  Here  the  crowds 
in  the  street  began  to  thin  out.  By  the 
time  we  reached  another  turn  the  city  was 
deserted.  Morgan  struck  a wax  taper  and 
consulted  his  watch. 

“ In  ten  minutes,  mi  amigo , the  train  is 
due  from  Chihuahua.  I must  be  on  hand 
to  unlock  the  freight  - house.  We  will 
make  a short  cut  through  here.” 


42  A IVbite  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


The  moon  had  set,  leaving  to  the  flick- 
ering lanterns  at  the  street  corners  the 
task  of  lighting  us  home.  I stumbled 
along,  keeping  close  to  my  friend,  winding 
in  and  out  of  lonely  crooked  streets,  under 
black  archways,  and  around  the  sharp  pro- 
jecting angles  of  low  adobe  walls.  The 
only  sound  beside  our  hurrying  footsteps 
was  the  loud  crowing  of  a cock  miscalcu- 
lating the  dawn. 

Suddenly  Morgan  pushed  aside  a swing- 
ing wooden  door  framed  in  an  adobe  wall, 
and  I followed  him  through  what  appeared 
to  be  an  abandoned  convent  garden.  He 
halted  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  quad- 
rangle, felt  along  the  whitewashed  wall, 
shot  back  a bolt,  and  held  open  a second 
door.  As  I closed  it  behind  me  a man 
wrapped  in  a cloak  stepped  from  a niche 
in  the  wall  and  leveled  his  carbine.  Mor- 
gan sprang  back  and  called  out  to  me  in 
a sharp  firm  voice  : — 

“ Stand  still.” 

I glued  myself  to  the  spot.  In  fact,  the 
only  part  of  me  that  was  at  all  alive  was 
my  imagination. 

I was  instantly  perforated,  stripped,  and 


43 


After  Dark  in  Silao 


lugged  off  to  the  mountains  on  a burro’s 
back,  where  select  portions  of  my  ears 
were  sliced  off  and  forwarded  to  my 
friends  as  sight  drafts  on  my  entire 
worldly  estate.  While  I was  calculating 
the  chances  of  my  plunging  through  the 
door  and  escaping  by  the  garden,  this 
came  from  the  muffled  figure  : — 

“ Quien  vive  ? ” 

“ La  liber  tad,”  replied  Morgan  quietly. 

“ (fue  nacion  ? ” 

“ Un  compatriota answered  my  com- 
panion. 

The  carbine  was  lowered  slowly.  Mor- 
gan advanced,  mumbled  a few  words, 
called  to  me  to  follow,  and  struck  out 
boldly  across  the  plain  to  the  station. 

“ Who  was  your  murderous  friend  ? a 
brigand  ? ” I asked  when  I had  recovered 
my  breath. 

“ No.  One  of  the  Rurales,  or  civil 
guards.  They  are  the  salvation  of  the 
country.  They  challenge  every  man  cross- 
ing their  beat  after  ten  o’clock.” 

“ And  if  you  do  not  halt  ? Then  what  ? ” 

“ Then  say  a short  prayer.  There  will 
not  be  time  for  a long  one.” 


44  A White  Umbrella  in  Mexico 

As  we  reached  the  tracks  I heard  the 
whistle  of  the  night  express.  Morgan 
seized  a lantern  and  swung  it  above  his 
head.  The  train  stopped.  I counted  all 
my  bones  and  turned  in  for  the  night. 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE  OPALS  OF  QUERETARO. 

I arrived  with  a cyclone.  To  be  ex- 
act, the  cyclone  was  ahead.  All  I saw  as 
I stepped  from  the  train  was  a whirling 
cloud  of  dust  through  which  the  roof  of 
the  station  was  dimly  outlined,  a long 
plank  walk,  and  a string  of  cabs. 

A boy  emerged  from  the  cloud  and 
grabbed  my  bag. 

“ Will  it  rain  ? ” I asked  anxiously. 

“ No,  senor.  No  rain,  but  much  dust.” 

It  was  a dry  storm,  common  in  this 
season  and  section.  Compared  with  it  the 
simoon  on  the  Sahara  is  a gentle  zephyr. 


46  A White  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


When  the  boy  had  collected  the  bal- 
ance of  my  belongings,  he  promptly  asked 
me  two  questions.  Would  I visit  the  spot 
where  Maximilian  was  shot,  and  would  I 
buy  some  opals.  The  first  was  to  be  ac- 
complished by  means  of  a cab;  the  second 
by  diving  into  his  trousers  pocket  and 
hauling  up  a little  wad.  This  he  unrolled, 
displaying  half  a teaspoonful  of  gems  of 
more  or  less  value  and  brilliancy. 

I had  not  the  slightest  desire  to  see  the 
spot,  and  my  bank  account  was  entirely  too 
limited  for  opalescent  luxuries.  I im- 
parted this  information,  rubbing  both  eyes 
and  breathing  through  my  sleeve.  He 
could  get  me  a cab  and  a hotel  — any- 
where out  of  this  simoon. 

“ But,  senor,  it  will  be  over  in  a min- 
ute.” 

Even  while  he  spoke  the  sun  sifted 
through,  the  blue  sky  appeared  faintly 
overhead,  and  little  whirls  of  funnel-shaped 
dust  went  careering  down  the  track  to 
plague  the  next  town  below. 

When  I reached  the  plaza  the  air  was 
delicious  and  balmy,  and  the  fountains 
under  the  trees  cool  and  refreshing. 


The  Opals  of  Qiieretaro 


47 


If  one  has  absolutely  nothing  to  do, 
Queretaro  is  the  place  in  which  to  do 
it.  If  he  suffers  from  the  constitutional 
disease  of  being  born  tired,  here  is  the 
place  for  him  to  rest.  The  grass  grows  in 
the  middle  of  the  streets ; at  every  corner 
there  is  a small  open  square  full  of  trees ; 
under  each  tree  a bench  ; on  every  bench 
a wayfarer  : they  are  all  resting.  If  you 
interview  one  of  them  as  to  his  special  oc- 
cupation, he  will  revive  long  enough  to 
search  among  the  recesses  of  his  ward- 
robe and  fish  out  various  little  wads. 
When  he  unwinds  the  skein  of  dirty 
thread  which  binds  one,  he  will  spill  out 
upon  his  equally  dirty  palm  a thimble- 
ful of  the  national  gems,  of  more  or  less 
value. 

You  wonder  where  all  these  opalescent 
seed  pearls  come  from,  and  conclude  that 
each  one  of  these  weary  dealers  has  an 
especial  hole  in  the  ground  somewhere 
which  he  visits  at  night.  Hence  his  wads, 
his  weariness,  and  his  daytime  loaf. 

In  reply  to  your  inquiries  he  says,  in  a 
vague  sort  of  a way,  Oh  ! from  the  mines ; 
but  whether  they  are  across  the  moun- 


48  A White  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


tains  or  in  his  back-yard  you  never  know. 
Of  one  thing  you  are  convinced  : to  be 
retailecl  by  the  wad,  these  gems  must  be 
wholesaled  by  the  bushel.  You  can  hardly 
jostle  a man  in  Quere'taro  who  has  not  a 
collection  somewhere  about  him.  The 
flower-woman  at  the  corner,  the  water- 
carrier  with  his  red  jars,  the  cabby,  the 
express  agent,  the  policeman,  and  I doubt 
not  the  padre  and  the  sacristan,  all  have 
their  little  wads  tucked  away  somewhere 
in  their  little  pockets. 

And  yet  with  all  this  no  one  ever  saw, 
within  the  memory  of  the  oldest  inhab- 
itant, a single  stone  in  the  ear  or  on 
the  finger  of  any  citizen  of  Quere'taro. 
They  are  hoarded  for  the  especial  benefit 
of  the  stranger.  If  he  is  a poor  stranger 
and  has  but  one  peseta  it  makes  no  dif- 
ference, he  must  have  an  opal,  and  the 
spoonful  is  raked  over  until  a little  one 
for  a peseta  is  found.  Quite  an  electric 
light  of  a gem  can  be  purchased  for  five 
dollars. 

The  spot  and  the  opal  are,  however, 
the  only  drawbacks  to  the  stranger,  and 
even  then  if  it  becomes  known  that  upon 


The  Opals  of  Queretaro 


49 


no  possible  condition  could  you  be  in- 
duced to  climb  that  forlorn  hill,  half  way 
up  which  the  poor  emperor  was  riddled 
to  death,  and  that  you  have  been  born 
not  only  tired  but  with  the  superstition 
that  opals  are  unlucky,  then  by  a kind  of 
freemasonry  the  word  is  passed  around, 
and  you  are  spared,  and  welcomed.  This 
was  my  experience.  The  well  - known 
poverty  of  the  painter  the  world  over  — 
instantly  recognized  when  I opened  my 
umbrella  — assisted  me,  no  doubt,  in 
establishing  this  relation. 

But  the  charm  of  Quere'taro  is  not  con- 
fined to  its  grass  - grown  streets.  The 
churches  are  especially  interesting.  That 
of  Santa  Cruz  is  entirely  unique,  partic- 
ularly its  interior  adornment.  Besides, 
there  is  a great  aqueduct,  five  miles  long, 
built  on  stone  arches,  — the  most  impor- 
tant work  of  its  kind  in  Mexico,  — sup- 
plying fresh  cool  water  from  the  moun- 
tains, the  greatest  of  all  blessings  in  a 
thirsty  land.  Then  there  are  scores  of 
fountains  scattered  through  the  city,  semi- 
tropical  plants  in  the  plazas,  palms  and 
bananas  over  the  walks,  and  on  the  edge 


50  A White  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


of  the  city  a delightful  alameda,  filled  with 
trees  and  embowered  in  roses.  The 
flowers  are  free  to  whoever  will  gather. 
Moreover,  on  the  corners  of  the  streets, 
under  the  arching  palms,  sit  Indian  wo- 
men selling  water  from  great  red  earthen 
jars. 

With  that  delicate,  refined  taste  which 
characterizes  these  people  in  everything 
they  touch,  the  rims  of  these  jars  are 
wreathed  with  poppies,  while  over  their 
sides  hang  festoons  of  leaves.  The  whole 
has  a refreshing  look  which  must  be  en- 
joyed to  be  appreciated.  I put  down  half 
a centavo,  the  smallest  of  copper  coins, 
and  up  came  a glass  of  almost  ice-cold 
water  from  the  jars  of  soft-baked  porous 
clay. 

Then  there  is  the  church  of  Santa  Clara, 
a smoky,  dingy  old  church,  with  sunken 
floors  and  a generally  dilapidated  ap- 
pearance within  — until  you  begin  to 
analyze  its  details.  Imagine  a door  lead- 
ing from  the  main  body  of  the  church  — 
it  is  not  large  — to  the  sacristy.  The 
door  proper  is  the  inside  beading  of  an 
old  picture  frame.  Across  the  top  is  a 


The  Opals  of  Queretaro 


5' 


heavy  silk  curtain  of  faded  pomegranate. 


Around  the  beading  extend  the  several 
members  of  a larger  and  still  larger  frame, 


5 2 A White  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


in  grooves,  flutes,  scrolls,  and  rich  elabo- 
rate carving  clear  to  the  ceiling,  the  whole 
forming  one  enormous  frame  of  solid 
gilt.  In  and  out  of  this  yellow  gold  door 
little  black  dots  of  priests  and  penitents 
sway  the  pomegranate  curtain  looped 
back  to  let  them  pass.  To  the  right  rises 
a high  choir  loft  overlaid  with  gold  leaf. 
Scattered  about  on  the  walls,  unplaced, 
as  it  were,  hang  old  pictures  and  tattered 
banners.  On  the  left  stands  the  altar, 
raised  above  the  level  of  the  church, 
surrounded  by  threadbare  velvet  chairs, 
and  high  candelabra  resting  on  the  floor, 
holding  giant  candles.  Above  these  hang 
dingy  old  lamps  of  exquisite  design.  The 
light  struggles  through  the  windows,  be- 
grimed with  dust.  The  uncertain  benches 
are  polished  smooth.  At  the  far  end  a 
sort  of  partition  of  open  wooden  slats 
shuts  off  the  altar  rail.  Behind  this  screen 
is  stored  a lumber  of  old  furniture,  great 
chests,  wooden  images,  and  the  aban- 
doned and  wornout  paraphernalia  of  re- 
ligious festivals. 

Yet  with  all  this  Santa  Clara  is  the 
most  delightfully  picturesque  church  in- 


The  Opals  of  Queretaro  5 3 

terior  one  can  meet  with  the  world  over. 
Some  day  they  will  take  up  a collection, 
or  an  old  Don  will  die  and  leave  a pot  of 
money  “ to  restore  and  beautify  the  most 
holy  and  sacred  the  church  of  Santa 
Clara,”  and  the  fiends  will  enter  in  and 
close  the  church,  and  pull  down  the  old 
pictures  and  throw  away  the  lamps,  chairs 
and  candlesticks,  and  whitewash  the  walls, 
regild  the  huge  frame  of  the  sacristy  door, 
and  make  dust  rags  of  the  pomegranate 
silk.  Then  they  will  hang  a green  and 
purple  raw  silk  terror,  bordered  with  sil- 
ver braid,  in  its  place,  panel  the  white- 
washed walls  in  red  stripes,  bracket 
pressed-glass  kerosene  lamps  on  the  col- 
umns, open  the  edifice  to  the  public,  and 
sing  Te  Deums  for  a month,  in  honor  of 
the  donor. 

This  is  not  an  exaggeration.  Step  into 
the  church  of  San  Francisco,  now  the  ca- 
thedral of  Queretaro,  within  half  a dozen 
squares  of  this  lovely  old  church  of  Santa 
Clara,  and  see  the  ruin  that  has  been 
wrought.  I forget  the  name  of  the  dis- 
tinguished old  devotee  who  contributed 
his  estate  to  destroy  this  once  beautiful 


54  A White  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


interior,  but  his  soul  ought  to  do  penance 
in  purgatory  until  the  fingers  of  time  shall 
have  regilded  it  with  the  soft  bloom  of  the 
dust  and  mould  of  centuries,  and  the  light 
of  countless  summers  shall  have  faded 
into  pale  harmonies  the  impious  contrasts 
he  left  behind  him. 

I often  think  what  a shock  it  must  be 
to  the  good  taste  of  nature  when  one 
whitewashes  an  old  fence.  For  years  the 
sun  bleached  it,  and  the  winds  polished  it 
until  each  fibre  shone  like  soft  threads  of 
gray  satin.  Then  the  little  lichens  went 
to  work  and  filled  up  all  the  cracks  and 
crannies,  and  wove  gray  and  black  films 
of  lace  over  the  rails,  and  the  dew  came 
every  night  and  helped  the  green  moss  to 
bind  the  edges  with  velvet,  and  the  worms 
gnawed  the  splinters  into  holes,  and  .the 
weeds  clustered  about  it  and  threw  their 
tall  blossoms  against  it,  and  where  there 
was  found  the  top  of  a particularly  ugly 
old  hewn  post  a little  creeper  of  a vine 
peeped  over  the  stone  wall  and  saw  its 
chance  and  called  out,  “ Hold  on ; I can 
hide  that,”  and  so  shot  out  a long,  delicate 
spray  of  green,  which  clung  faithfully  all 


The  Opals  of  Querelaro 


55 


summer  and  left  a crown  of  gold  be- 
hind when  it  died  in  the  autumn.  And 
yet  here  comes  this  vandal  with  a scythe 
and  a bucket,  sweeps  away  all  this  beauty 
in  an  hour,  and  leaves  behind  only  its 
grinning  skeleton. 

A man  who  could  whitewash  an  old 
worm  fence  would  be  guilty  of  any  crime, 
— even  of  boiling  a peach. 

But  with  the  exception  of  the  cathedral, 
this  imp  of  a bucket  has  fastened  very  lit- 
tle of  his  fatal  work  upon  Queretaro. 

When  the  sun  goes  down  behind  the 
trees  of  the  plaza  the  closely  barred  shut- 
ters, closed  all  day,  are  bowed  open,  and 
between  the  slats  you  can  catch  the  flash 
of  a pair  of  dark  eyes.  Later,  the  fair 
owners  come  out  on  the  balconies  one  by 
one,  their  dark  hair  so  elaborately  wrought 
that  you  know  at  a glance  how  the  greater 
part  of  the  afternoon  has  been  spent. 
\\  hen  the  twilight  steals  on,  the  doors 
of  these  lonely  and  apparently  uninhab- 
ited houses  are  thrown  wide  open,  display- 
ing the  exquisite  gardens  blooming  in  the 
patios,  and  through  the  gratings  of  the 
always  closed  iron  gates  you  get  glimpses 


56  A White  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


of  easy  chairs  and  hammocks  with  in- 
dented pillows,  telling  the  story  of  the 
day’s  exertion.  In  the  twilight  you  pass 


The  Opals  of  Qiieretaro  57 

these  same  pretty  senoritas  in  groups  of 
threes  and  fours  strolling  through  the 
parks,  dressed  in  pink  and  white  lawn 
with  Spanish  veils  and  fans,  their  dainty 
feet  clad  in  white  stockings  and  red- 
heeled  slippers. 

One  makes  friends  easily  among  a peo- 
ple so  isolated.  When  it  is  once  under- 
stood that  although  an  American  you  are 
not  connected  with  the  railway,  their 
hospitality  is  most  cordial. 

“I  like  you,”  said  an  old  man  seated 
next  me  on  a bench  in  the  plaza  one  af- 
ternoon, “because  you  are  an  American 
and  do  not  eat  the  tobacco.  Caramba ! 
that  is  horrible  ! ” 

My  trap,  moreover,  is  a constant  source 
of  astonishment  and  amusement.  No 
sooner  is  the  umbrella  raised  and  I get 
fairly  to  work  than  I am  surrounded  by  a 
crowd  so  dense  I cannot  see  a rod  ahead. 
It  is  so  rare  that  a painter  is  seen  in  the 
streets  — many  people  tell  me  that  they 
never  saw  one  at  work  before  — that  often 
I rise  from  my  stool  in  despair  at  the 
backs  and  shoulders  in  front.  I then 
pick  out  some  one  or  two  having  authority 


5&  A White  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


and  stand  them  guard  over  each  wing  of 
the  half  circle,  and  so  the  sketch  is  com- 
pleted. 

This  old  fellow  who  shared  my  bench 
in  the  plaza  had  served  me  in  this  capa- 
city in  the  morning,  and  our  acquaintance 
soon  ripened  into  an  intimacy.  He  was 
a clean,  cool,  breezy-looking  old  fellow, 
with  a wide  straw  sombrero  shading  a 
ruddy  face  framed  in  a bushy  snow-white 
beard.  His  coat,  trousers,  shirt,  and  san- 
dals were  all  apparently  cut  from  the 
same  piece  of  white  cotton  cloth.  The 
only  bit  of  color  about  him  below  his  rosy 
face  was  a zarape.  This,  from  successive 
washings,  — an  unusual  treatment,  by  the 
way,  for  zarapes,  — had  faded  to  a deli- 
cate pink. 

“Not  made  now,”  said  he,  in  answer  to 
my  inquiring  glance.  “ This  zarape  be- 
longed to  my  father,  and  was  woven  by 
my  grandmother  on  a hand  loom.  You 
can  get  plenty  at  the  store.  They  are 
made  by  steam,  but  I cannot  part  with 
this.  It  is  for  my  son.” 

I reluctantly  gave  it  up.  It  was  the 
best  I had  seen.  When  he  stood  up  and 


The  Opals  of  Qiieretaro  59 


wrapped  it  about  him  he  was  as  delicious 
a bit  of  color  as  one  would  find  in  a day’s 
journey.  Moreover,  the  old  fellow  was  a 
man  of  information.  He  knew  the  his- 
tory of  the  founding  of  the  city  and  the 
building  of  the  great  aqueduct  by  the 
Marques  de  la  Villa  del  Villar  de  la  Aguila, 
who  defrayed  most  of  the  expenses,  and 
whose  effigy  decorates  the  principal  foun- 
tain. He  saw  Maximilian  and  Generals 
Miramon  and  Mejia  leave  the  convent  of 
Santa  Cruz  the  morning  of  their  execu- 
tion, June  19,  1867  ; and  remembered  per- 
fectly the  war  with  the  United  States  and 
the  day  the  treaty  of  peace  was  ratified 
with  Congress  in  1848.  Finally  he  tells  me 
that  pulque  was  first  discovered  in  Quere- 
taro,  and  insists  that,  as  this  is  my  last 
day  in  the  city,  — for  on  the  morrow  I go 
to  Aguas  Calientes,  — I must  go  to  the 
posada  opposite  and  have  a mug  with 
him  ; that  when  I reach  the  great  City  of 
Mexico  I will  think  of  this  pulque,  the 
most  delicious  in  the  republic,  and  find- 
ing none  to  compare,  will  come  back  to 
Queretaro  for  its  mate  and  so  he  will  see 


me  again. 


6o  A White  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


We  have  the  pulque,  the  old  man  drink- 
ing my  share,  and  on  our  way  to  the  sta- 
tion pass  through  the  market-place.  My 
last  view  of  this  delightful  old  city  is 
across  this  market-place,  with  the  domed 
buildings  in  the  background  silhouetted 


sway  now  lounged  and  slept  hundreds  of 
tired  people,  some  on  the  steps  surround- 
ing the  square  stone  column  centring  the 
plaza,  others  flat  on  the  pavement.  Here 
they  will  doze  until  the  sun  looks  at  them 
from  over  the  Cerro  de  las  Campanas. 
Then  they  will  shake  themselves  together, 
and  each  one  will  go  in  search  of  his  daily 
avocation.  It  is  safe  to  say  that  not  one 
in  ten  ever  finds  it. 


against  the 
evening  sky. 
All  over  the 
open  space 
where  the 
rush  a n d 
traffic  of  the 
morning 


had  held 


CHAPTER  IV. 

SOME  PEONS  AT  AGUAS  CALIENTES. 

Blinding  sunlight ; a broad  road  ankle 
deep  in  dust  ■ a double  row  of  great  trees 
with  branches  like  twisted  cobras  ; inky 
blue  black  shadows  stencilled  on  the  gray 
dust,  repeating  the  tree  forms  above  ; a 
long,  narrow  canal  but  a few  feet  wide  half 
filled  with  water,  from  which  rise  little 
whiffs  of  hot  steam  ; beside  it  a straggling 
rude  stone  wall  fringed  with  bushes.  In 
the  middle  distance,  through  vistas  of  tree 
trunks,  glimpses  of  brown  fields  fading 
away  into  pale  pink,  violet,  and  green. 
In  the  dim  blue  beyond,  the  dome  and 
towers  of  a church,  surmounting  little 
spots  of  yellow,  cream  white,  and  red, 


62  A White  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


broken  with  patches  of  dark  green,  — lo- 
cating bits  of  the  town,  — with  orange 
groves  between. 

Long  strings  of  burros  crawl  into  the 
city  along  this  highway  loaded  down  with 
great  bundles  of  green  fodder  ; undulating 
masses  of  yellow  dust  drift  over  it,  which 
harden  into  droves  of  sheep  as  they  pass. 

Shuffling  along  its  edges,  hugging  the 
intermittent  shadows,  stroll  groups  of 
natives  in  twos  and  threes  ; the  women  in 
straw  hats  with  plaited  hair,  their  little 
children  slung  to  their  backs,  the  men  in 
zarapes  and  sandals  carrying  crates  on 
their  shoulders  packed  with  live  poultry 
and  cheap  pottery. 

Such  was  my  first  glance  at  Aguas  Ca- 
lientes.  But  there  is  something  more. 
To  the  left,  along  the  whole  length  of  the 
canal  or  sluiceway,  as  far  as  the  eye  can 
reach,  are  scattered  hundreds  of  natives 
of  both  sexes,  and  all  ages,  lining  the  wa- 
ter’s edge  and  disporting  themselves  in 
every  conceivable  state  of  deshabille.  In 
fact,  it  might  as  well  be  stated  that  the 
assemblage  is  divided  into  two  classes, 
those  who  have  something  on  and  those 


Some  Peons  at  Aguas  Cali  elites  6 3 


who  have  nothing.  Five  hundred  of  the 
descendants  of  Montezuma  quietly  taking 
their  baths  at  high  noon  on  a public  high- 
way, with  only  such  privacy  as  the  Repub- 
lic of  Mexico  and  the  blue  sky  of  heaven 
afford  ! 

Old  men  hobble  along  the  roadside, 
turn  off  to  the  left,  select  a convenient 
bush  as  a clothes-rack,  scale  off  what 
scanty  raiment  they  carry  with  them,  and 
slide  turtle- like  into  the  warm  water. 
Young  Indian  girls  in  bunches  of  half  a 
dozen  sit  by  the  canal  and  comb  out  their 
wavy  black  hair,  glossy  with  wet,  while 
they  chat  merrily  with  their  friends  whose 
heads  bob  up  over  the  brink,  and  whose 
bodies  simmer  at  a temperature  of  90°. 
Whole  families  soak  in  groups,  sousing 
their  babies  in  the  warm  water  and  drain- 
ing them  on  the  bank,  where  they  glis- 
ten in  the  dazzling  sunlight  like  bronzed 
cupids.  Now  and  then  a tall,  straight 
young  Indian  turns  aside  from  out  the 
dust,  winds  his  zarape  about  him,  and 
protected  by  its  folds  unmakes  his  toilet, 
and  disappears  over  the  edge. 

Up  and  down  this  curious  inland  Long 


64  A White  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


Branch  rows  of  heads  bob  up  from  the 
sluiceway  and  smile  good-naturedly  as  I 
draw  near.  They  are  not  abashed  or  dis- 
turbed in  the  slightest  degree ; they  are 
only  concerned  lest  I seek  to  crowd  them 
from  their  places ; theirs  by  right  of  occu- 
pancy. 

Even  the  young  women  lying  on  the 
bank  in  the  shade,  with  one  end  of  a za- 
rape  tossed  over  their  backs,  their  only 
other  garment  washed  and  drying  in  the 
sun,  seem  more  interested  in  the  sketch 
trap  than  in  him  who  carries  it.  It  is 
one  of  the  customs  of  the  country. 

It  is  true  that  near  the  springs  above, 
within  a mile  of  this  spot,  there  is  a small 
pond  filled  from  the  overflow  of  the  baths 
adjoining,  which  they  can  use  and  some- 
times do,  but  the  privacy  is  none  the 
greater.  It  is  equally  true  that  down  the 
road  nearer  the  city  there  are  also  the 
“ Banos  Grandest  where  for  one  peseta 
- — • about  twenty-five  cents  — they  can  ob- 
tain a bath  with  all  the  encircling  privacy 
of  stone  walls,  and  with  the  additional 
comforts  of  a crash  towel,  one  foot  square, 
and  a cake  of  soap  of  the  size  and  density 


Some  Peons  at  Aguas  Calientes  65 


of  a grapeshot.  But  then,  the  wages  of  a 
native  for  a whole  day’s  work  is  less  than 
one  peseta,  and  when  he  is  lucky  enough 
to  get  this,  every  centavo  in  it  is  needed 
for  the  inside  of  his  dust-covered  body. 

Nor  can  he  utilize  his  surplus  clothing 
as  a shield  and  cover.  He  has  but  one 
suit,  a white  shirt  and  a pair  of  cotton 
trousers.  Naturally  he  falls  back  upon 
his  zarape,  often  handling  it  as  skilfully 
and  effectively  as  the  Indian  women  on 
the  steps  leading  to  the  sacred  Ganges  do 
their  gorgeous  colored  tunics,  slipping  the 
dry  one  over  the  wet  without  much  more 
than  a glimpse  of  finger  and  toe. 

All  these  thoughts  ran  through  my  head 
as  I unlimbered  my  trap,  opened  my  white 
umbrella,  and  put  up  my  easel  to  paint 
the  curious  scene. 

“ Buenos  dias,  scnor ,”  came  a voice  over 
my  shoulder.  I looked  up  and  into  the 
dark  eyes  of  a swarthy  Mexican,  who  was 
regarding  me  with  much  the  same  air  as 
one  would  a street  peddler  preparing  to 
exhibit  his  wares. 

“ Does  everybody  hereabout  bathe  in 
the  open  air  ? ” I ventured  to  ask. 


66  A White  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


“ Why  not  ? It  is  either  here  or  not  at 
all,”  he  replied. 

I continued  at  work,  ruminating  over 
the  strange  surroundings,  the  query  un- 
answered. 

Why  not,  in  fact  ? A tropical  sun, 
clouds  of  dust  dry  as  powder  and  fine  as 
smoke,  air  and  water  free,  nothing  else 
in  their  life  of  slavery. 

One  has  only  to  look  into  these  sad 
faces  to  read  the  history  of  this  patient, 
uncomplaining  race,  or  to  watch  them  as 
they  sit  for  hours  in  the  shadow  of  some 
great  building,  motionless,  muffled  to  the 
mouth  in  their  zarapes  and  rebozos,  their 
eyes  looking  straight  ahead  as  if  deter- 
mined to  read  the  future,  — to  appreciate 
their  hopelessness. 

From  the  days  of  Cortez  down  to  the 
time  of  Diaz,  they  have  been  humiliated, 
degraded,  and  enslaved  ; all  their  patriot- 
ism, self-reliance,  and  independence  has 
long  since  been  crushed  out.  They  are  a 
serving  people ; set  apart  and  kept  apart 
by  a caste  as  defined  and  rigid  as  divides 
society  to-day  in  Hindoostan — infinitely 
more  severe  than  ever  existed  in  the  most 


Some  Peons  at  Aguas  Calientes  67 


benighted  section  of  our  own  country  in 
the  old  plantation  days. 

They  have  inherited  nothing  in  the 
past  but  poverty  and  suffering,  and  ex- 


pect nothing  in  the  future.  To  sleep,  to 
awake,  to  be  hungry,  to  sleep  again. 
Sheltered  by  adobe  huts,  sleeping  upon 
coarse  straw  mats,  their  only  utensils  the 
rude  earthen  vessels  they  make  them- 
selves, their  daily  food  but  bruised  corn 
pounded  in  a stone  mortar,  they  pass  their 
lives  awaiting  the  inevitable,  without  hope 
and  without  ambition. 

“As  a rule,”  says  Consul-General  Stro- 
ther (Porte  Crayon)  “ none  of  the  working 
classes  of  Mexico  have  any  idea  of  pres- 


68  A White  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


ent  economy  or  of  providing  for  the  fu- 
ture. The  lives  of  most  of  them  seem  to 
be  occupied  in  obtaining  food  and  amuse- 
ment for  the  passing  hour,  without  either 
hope  or  desire  for  a better  future.” 

David  A.  Wells,  in  his  terse  and  pithy 
“ Study  of  Mexico,”  speaking  of  the  ha- 
ciendas and  their  peon  labor,  says  : — 

“ The  owners  of  these  large  Mexican 
estates,  who  are  generally  men  of  wealth 
and  education,  rarely  live  upon  them,  but 
make  their  homes  in  the  city  of  Mexico 
or  in  Europe,  and  intrust  the  management 
of  their  property  to  a superintendent  who, 
like  the  owner,  considers  himself  a gen- 
tleman, and  whose  chief  business  is  to 
keep  the  peons  in  debt,  or,  what  is  the 
same  thing,  in  slavery.  Whatever  work  is 
done  is  performed  by  the  peons,  — in 
whose  veins  Indian  blood  predominates, 
— in  their  own  way  and  in  their  own 
time.  . . . Without  being  bred  to  any  me- 
chanical profession,  the  peons  make  and 
repair  nearly  every  instrument  or  tool  that 
is  used  upon  the  estate,  and  this,  too, 
without  the  use  of  a forge,  not  even  of 
bolts  and  nails.  The  explanation  of  such 


Some  Peons  at  Aguas  Calientes  69 


an  apparently  marvellous  result  is  to  be 
found  in  a single  word  or  rather  material, 
— rawhide,  — with  which  the  peon  feels 
himself  qualified  to  meet  almost  any  con- 
structive emergency,  from  the  framing  of 
a house  to  the  making  of  a loom,  the  mend- 
ing of  a gun,  or  the  repair  of  a broken  leg.” 

It  is  not,  therefore,  from  lack  of  in- 
telligence, or  ingenuity,  or  capacity,  that 
the  condition  of  these  descendants  of  the 
Aztec  warriors  is  so  hopeless,  but  rather 
from  the  social  isolation  to  which  they  are 
subjected,  and  which  cuts  them  off  from 
every  influence  that  makes  the  white  man 
their  superior. 

So  I worked  on,  pondering  over  this 
hopeless  race,  outcasts  and  serfs  in  a 
land  once  their  own,  and  thinking  of  the 
long  account  of  cruelty  and  selfishness 
which  stood  against  the  Spanish  nation, 
when  suddenly  from  beneath  my  white 
umbrella  I noticed  three  Indians  rise  from 
the  ground  near  the  canal,  stand  apart 
from  their  fellows,  and  walk  towards  me. 
As  I lifted  my  eyes  they  hesitated,  then, 
as  if  gathering  courage,  again  advanced 
cautiously  until  they  stood  within  a dozen 


yo  A White  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


yards  of  my  easel.  Here  they  squatted 
in  the  dust,  the  three  in  a row,  their  za- 
rapes  half  covering  their  faces.  I laid 
down  my  palette  and  beckoned  them  to  me. 
They  advanced  smiling,  raised  their  som- 
breros with  an  “ a Dios,  senor ,”  crouched 
down  on  their  haunches,  a favorite  atti- 
tude, and  watched  every  movement  of  my 
brush  with  the  deepest  interest,  exchang- 
ing significant  and  appreciative  glances  as 
I dotted  in  the  figures.  Not  one  opened 
his  lips.  Silent  and  grave  as  the  stone 
gods  of  their  ancestors  sat  they,  wholly 
absorbed  in  a revelation  as  astounding  to 
them  as  a vision  from  an  unknown  world. 

Presently  a great  flock  of  sheep  wrin- 
kled past  me  shutting  out  my  view,  and 
I reversed  my  canvas  to  shield  it,  and 
waited  for  the  dust  to  settle.  During  the 
pause  I slipped  my  hand  in  the  side 
pocket  of  my  blouse,  drew  out  my  cigar- 
ette case,  and,  touching  the  spring,  handed 
its  open  contents  to  the  three  Indians. 

It  was  curious  to  see  how  they  received 
the  slight  courtesy,  and  with  what  surprise, 
hesitancy,  and  genuine  delight  they  looked 
at  the  open  case.  It  was  as  if  you  had 


Some  Peons  at  A git  as  Calientes  7/ 


stopped  a crippled  beggar  on  the  road 
and,  having  relieved  his  wants,  had  lifted 
him  up  beside  you  and  returned  him  to 
his  hovel  in  your  carriage. 

Each  man  helped  himself  daintily  to  my 
cigarettes,  laying  them  on  the  palm  of 
his  hand,  and  then  watched  me  closely.  I 
selected  my  own,  touched  my  match-safe, 
and  passed  the  lighted  taper  to  the  Indian 
nearest  me.  Instantly  they  all  uncovered, 
placing  their  sombreros  in  the  dust,  and 
gravely  accepted  the  light.  When  I had 
exhausted  its  flickering  flame  upon  my 
own  cigarette,  and  taken  my  first  whiff, 
they  replaced  their  hats  with  the  same 
sort  of  respectful  silence  one  sometimes 
sees  in  a crowded  street  when  a priestly 
procession  passes.  It  was  not  a matter  of 
form  alone.  It  did  not  seem  to  be  simply 
the  acknowledgment  of  perhaps  the  most 
trivial  courtesy  one  can  offer  another  in  a 
Spanish  country.  There  was  something 
more  that  lurked  around  the  corners  of 
their  mouths  and  kindled  in  their  eyes, 
which  said  to  me  but  too  plainly  : — 

“This  stranger  is  a white  man  and  yet 
he  does  not  despise  us.” 


*]2  A White  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


When  the  sketch  was  finished,  the  trap 
packed,  and  I turned  to  retrace  my  steps 
to  my  lodgings,  all  three  arose  to  their 
feet,  unwound  their  zarapes,  and  trailed 
them  in  the  dust.  I can  see  them  now, 
standing  uncovered  in  the  sunlight,  and 
hear  their  low,  soft  voices  calling  after 
me  : — 

“ Con  Dios  va  usted,  mi  amigo.” 

I continued  my  rambles,  following  the 
highway  into  the  city,  idling  about  the 
streets  and  jotting  down  queer  bits  of  ar- 
chitecture and  odd  figures  in  my  sketch- 
book. I stopped  long  enough  to  examine 
the  high  saddles  of  a pair  of  horses 
tethered  outside  a fonda,  their  owners 
drinking  pulque  within,  and  then  crossed 
over  to  where  some  children  were  playing 
“ bull  fight.” 

When  the  sun  went  down  I strolled 
into  the  beautiful  garden  of  San  Marcos 
and  sat  me  down  on  one  of  the  stone 
benches  surrounding  the  fountain.  Here, 
after  bathing  my  face  and  hands  in  the 
cool  water  of  the  basin,  I rested  and 
talked  to  the  gardener. 


Some  Peons  at  Aguas  Calientes 


He  was  an  Indian,  quite  an  old  man, 
and  had  spent  most  of  his  life  here.  The 
garden  belonged  to  the  city,  and  he  was 
paid  two  pesetas  a day  to  take  care  of  his 
part  of  it.  If  I would  come  in  the  even- 
ing the  benches  would  be  full.  There 
were  many  beautiful  senoritas  in  Aguas 
Calientes,  and  on  Sunday  there  would  be 
music.  But  I must  wait  until  April  if  I 
wanted  to  see  the  garden,  and  in  fact  the 
whole  city,  in  its  gala  dress.  Then  would 
be  celebrated  the  fiesta  of  San  Marcos, 
their  patron  saint,  strings  of  lanterns  hung 
and  lighted,  the  fountains  playing  music 
everywhere,  and  crowds  of  people  from  all 
the  country  around,  even  from  the  great 
city  of  Mexico,  and  as  far  north  as  Zacate'- 
cas.  Then  he  tucked  a cluster  of  azaleas 
into  the  strap  of  my  “ trap  ” and  insisted 
on  going  with  me  to  the  corner  of  the  ca- 
thedral, so  that  I should  not  miss  the  turn 
in  the  next  street  that  led  to  the  pottery 
market. 

All  the  markets  of  Aguas  Calientes  are 
interesting,  for  the  country  round  about 
is  singularly  rich  and  fertile,  and  fruits 
and  vegetables  are  raised  in  abundance. 


74  4 White  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


The  pottery  market  is  especially  so.  It  is 
held  in  a small  open  square  near  the  gen- 
eral market,  surrounded  by  high  build- 
ings. The  pottery  is  piled  in  great  heaps 
on  the  ground,  and  the  Indian  women, 
sheltered  by  huge  square  and  octagon 
umbrellas  of  coarse  matting,  sit  all  day 
serving  their  customers.  At  night  they 
burn  torches.  All  the  other  markets  are 
closed  at  noon.  The  pottery  is  very 
cheap,  a few  centavos  covering  the  cost  of 
almost  any  single  piece  of  moderate  size, 
and  one  peseta  making  you  master  of  the 
most  important  specimen  in  a collection. 

Each  province,  in  fact  almost  every 
village  in  Mexico,  produces  a ware  having 
more  or  less  distinctly  marked  character- 
istics. In  Guadalajara  the  pottery  is 
gray,  soft-baked,  and  unglazed,  but  highly 
polished  and  often  decorated  with  strip- 
ings  of  silver  and  gold  bronze.  In  Za- 
catecas the  glaze  is  as  hard  and  brilliant 
as  a piano  top,  and  the  small  pulque  pots 
and  pitchers  look  like  polished  mahogany 
or  highly-colored  meerschaum  pipe  bowls. 
In  Puebla  a finer  ware  is  made,  some- 
thing between  good  earthenware  and 


Some  Peons  at  Aguas  Calientes  75 


coarse,  soft  porcelain.  It  has  a thick  tin 
glaze,  and  the  decoration  in  strong  color 
is  an  under-glaze.  Here  in  Aguas  Cali- 
entes they  make  not  only  most  of  these 
coarser  varieties,  but  a better  grade  of 
gray  stoneware,  covered  with  a yellow 
glaze,  semi-transparent,  with  splashings  of 
red  flowers  and  leaves  scattered  over  it. 

The  potters  are  these  much  despised, 
degraded  peons,  who  not  only  work  in 
clay,  embroider  in  feathers  with  exquisite 
results  (an  industry  of  their  ancestors), 
but  make  the  finer  saddles  of  stamped 
and  incised  leather,  besides  producing  an 
infinite  variety  of  horse  equipment  un- 
known outside  of  Mexico.  Moreover,  in 
Uruapam  they  make  Japanese  lacquers, 
in  Santa  Fe  on  Lake  Patzcuaro,  Moorish 
iridescent  ware,  and  near  Puebla,  Vene- 
tian glass.  In  a small  town  in  western 
Mexico  I found  a glass  pitcher,  made  by  a 
Tarascan  Indian,  of  such  exquisite  mould 
and  finish  that  one  unfamiliar  with  the 
handiwork  of  this  down-trodden  race,  see- 
ing it  in  its  place  of  honor  in  my  studio, 
would  say,  “ Ah,  Venetian  — Salviati,  of 
course.” 


j6  A White  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


From  the  market  I sought  the  church 
of  San  Diego,  with  its  inlaid  wooden  floor, 
and  quaint  doorway  richly  carved,  and  as 
the  twilight  settled,  entered  the  narrow 
street  that  led  to  my  lodgings.  At  the 
farther  end,  beneath  an  overhanging  bal- 
cony, a group  of  children  and  natives 
were  gathered  about  a band  of  wandering 
minstrels.  As  I drew  near,  the  tinkle  of 
a triangle  and  the  thrum  of  a harp  accom- 
panying a weird  chant  rose  on  the  air. 
The  quartette  in  appearance,  costume, 
and  bearing  were  quite  different  from  any 
of  the  Indians  I had  seen  about  Aguas 
Calientes.  They  were  much  lighter  in 
color,  and  were  distinguished  by  a cer- 
tain air  of  independence  and  dignity. 

The  tallest  and  oldest  of  the  band  held 
in  his  left  hand  a short  harp,  quite  Greek 
in  its  design.  The  youngest  shook  a tam- 
bourine, with  rim  and  rattles  complete, 
but  without  the  drumhead.  The  third 
tinkled  a triangle,  while  the  fourth,  a deli- 
cate-looking, large-eyed,  straight  young 
fellow,  handsome  as  a Greek  god,  with 
teeth  like  rows  of  corn,  joined  in  the 
rhythmic  chant.  As  they  stood  in  the 


Some  Peons  at  Aguas  Calientes  77 


darkening  shadows  beating  time  with 
their  sandalled  feet,  with  harp  and  trian- 
gle silhouetted  against  the  evening  sky, 
and  zarapes  hanging  in  long  straight  lines 
from  their  shoulders,  the  effect  was  so 
thoroughly  classic  that  I could  not  but 
recall  one  of  the  great  friezes  of  the  Par- 
thenon. I lighted  a cigarette,  opened  the 
window  of  my  balcony,  and  placing  the 
bits  of  pottery  I had  bought  in  the  mar- 
ket in  a row  on  my  window-sill,  with  the 
old  gardener’s 
azaleas  in  the 
largest  jar,  lis- 
tened to  the 
music,  my 
thoughts  full  of 
the  day’s  work 
and  experience. 

My  memory 
went  back  to 
my  three  friends  of  the  morning,  stand- 
ing in  the  sunlight,  their  sombreros  in  the 
dust  ; to  the  garrulous  old  gardener  bend- 
ing over  his  flowers  ; to  the  girl  selling 
pottery;  to  the  almost  tender  courtesy 
and  gentleness  of  these  people,  their  un- 


78  A White  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


changing  serenity  of  temper,  their  mar- 
vellous patience,  their  innate  taste  and 
skill,  their  hopeless  poverty  and  daily 
privations  and  sufferings ; and  finally  to 
the  injustice  of  it  all. 

Peons  and  serfs  in  their  own  land ! 
Despoiled  by  Cortez,  tricked  by  his  suc- 
cessors, enslaved  by  the  viceroys,  taxed, 
beaten,  defrauded,  and  despised  by  almost 
every  ruler  and  usurper  since  the  days  of 
Spanish  rule,  the  whole  history  of  the  life 
of  the  Aztec  and  his  descendants,  from 
the  initial  massacre  at  Cholula  down  to 
the  present  day,  has  been  one  long  list  of 
cruelty  and  deceit. 

The  music  ceased.  The  old  minstrel 
approached  the  balcony  and  held  up  his 
wide  sombrero.  I poured  into  it  all  my 
stock  of  copper  coin.  u Muchas  gr arias, 
seTior came  back  the  humble  acknowl- 
edgment. Then  they  disappeared  up  the 
narrow  street  and  the  crowd  dispersed. 
I looked  after  them  long  and  musingly, 
and  surprised  myself  repeating  the  bene- 
diction of  the  morning,  — 

“ Con  Dios  vayan  ustedes,  inis  amigos." 


CHAPTER  V. 


THE  OLD  CHAIR  IN  THE  SACRISTY  AT 
ZACATECAS. 

It  stood  just 
inside  the  door 
as  I entered 
from  the  main 
body  of  the 
church.  Rich- 
ly carved,  with 
great  arms 
broadened  out 
where  the  el- 
bows touched, 
it  had  the  air 
of  being  espe- 
cially designed  for  some  overfed,  lazy  prel- 
ate. The  hand  rests  were  rounded  in 
wide  flutes,  convenient  spaces  for  his  fat 
fingers.  The  legs  bowed  out  slightly  from 
the  seat,  then  curved  sharply,  and  finally 
terminated  in  four  grotesque  claws,  each 
clutching  a great  round  ball,  — here  his 


8o  A White  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


toes  rested.  The  back  and  seat  were  cov- 
ered with  the  rags  and  remnants  of  a once 
rich  velvet,  fastened  by  an  intermittent 
row  of  brass  nails,  some  headless,  and 
others  showing  only  the  indent  of  their 
former  usefulness.  On  each  corner  of  the 
back  flared  two  gilt  flambeaux,  standing 
bolt  upright  like  a pair  of  outspread  hands. 
Over  the  whole  was  sifted,  and  into  each 
crack,  split,  and  carving  was  grimed  and 
channelled  the  white  dust  that  envelops 
Zacatecas  like  an  atmosphere. 

The  old  chair  had  evidently  had  its  day, 
and  it  had  been  a glorious  one.  What 
ceremonies  ! What  processions,  masses, 
feasts,  had  it  presided  over  ! What  grave 
counsels  had  it  listened  to  ! What  dan- 
gers escaped,  the  last  but  a score  of 
years  ago  when  this  same  old  cathedral 
of  Nuestra  Senora  de  la  Asuncion  was 
bombarded  by  Juarez ! 

Its  curved  and  stately  lines  were  too 
graceful  for  Mexican  handiwork.  Per- 
haps some  old  Spanish  grandee,  with  peni- 
tence in  his  soul,  had  sent  this  noble  seat 
across  the  sea  to  the  new  Spain,  in  grate- 
ful remembrance  of  the  most  holy  and 


The  Old  Clair  at  Zacatecas  81 


blessed  Lady  of  Guadaloupe,  the  patron 
saint  of  this  once  powerful  church. 

If,  in  the  old  days,  it  had  belonged  to 
a set  of  twelve,  or,  by  reason  of  its  arms, 
had  presided  over  a family  less  blessed, 
no  fragment  of  back,  leg,  or  round  was 
left  to  tell  the  tale.  A plain  square  table, 
covered  with  a cotton  cloth  edged  with 
cheap  lace,  upon  which  stood  a crucifix,  a 
few  worn-out,  high-backed,  hide-bottomed 
chairs,  and  a chest  of  green  painted  bu- 
reau drawers  built  into  the  wall  and  hold- 
ing the  church  vestments,  were  its  only 
companions.  But  all  these  were  of  a re- 
cent date  and  pattern. 

I had  been  in  Zacatecas  but  a few 
hours  when  I discovered  this  precious 
relic  of  the  last  century.  I coveted  it 
at  sight ; more,  I admit,  than  I dared 
tell  the  good-natured,  patient  sacristan 
who  stood  by  wondering  and  delighted, 
watching  me  make  a rapid  sketch  of  its 
twisted  legs  and  capacious  seat.  To  all 
my  propositions  for  its  immediate  pos- 
session, however,  he  only  shrugged  his 
shoulders.  I confess  that  many  of  them 
savored  of  conspiracy,  and  all  of  them  of 


82  A White  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


grand  larceny,  and  that  I was  entitled  to 
a speedy  trial  and  a place  in  the  chain- 
gang  for  suggesting  any  one  of  them. 

“ A ragged  old  chair  that  will  hardly 
stand  upright ; the  only  one  left.  Who 
will  miss  it  ? ” I argued. 

“ The  padre,  senor  painter,  who  is  very 
old.  He  loves  everything  here.  This 
wretched  chair  has  been  his  friend  for 
many  years.” 

“Tell  him,  mi  amigo , that  I,  too,  love 
chairs,  old  ones  especially,  and  will  give 
him  the  price  of  two,  four,  six  new  ones, 
for  this  old  rattletrap.” 

“Very  well,  senor  ; at  five  o’clock  to-day 
vespers  will  be  over.  Then  the  padre  will 
return  here.  Wait  for  me  in  the  garden 
over  the  way  near  the  fountain.” 

The  decision  was  a relief.  In  Mexico, 
as  in  Spain,  it  is  generally  to-morrow  or 
the  day  after.  Manana  por  la  manana  is 
the  motto  of  the  Spanish-speaking  race. 

It  was  now  twelve  o’clock.  Only  five 
hours  to  wait.  My  hopes  rose.  I reen- 
tered the  cathedral. 

It  had  been  a sumptuous  church  in  its 
day.  Begun  in  1612,  completed  one  hun- 


The  Old  Chair  at  Zacatecas  83 

dred  and  twenty-five  years  later,  and  dedi- 
cated with  imposing  ceremonies  the  year 
following,  it  had  contained  within  its  walls 
all  that  florid  magnificence  which  distin- 
guishes the  Mexican 
churches.  All  the 
interior  adornments 
had  been  of  plated 
gilt,  the  altars  of  fine 
marble  and  onyx,  the 
font  of  solid  silver, 

— alone  valued  at 
twenty  thousand 
pounds  sterling. 

Four  noble  steps  of 
colored  marble,  still 
intact,  led  the  way  to 
the  altar.  On  each 
side  ran  a railing  of 
wrought  silver  of  fab- 
ulous worth.  Over  this  had  hung  a lamp 
of  splendid  proportions,  burning  a single 
taper,  and  shedding  a ruby  light.  The 
main  floor  was  of  marquetry  of  varied 
colored  woods,  and  of  a simple  Moorish 
pattern,  marking  the  prominence  of  that 
Spanish  taste  which  at  the  period  charac- 


84  A White  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


terized  so  many  of  the  great  colonial 
structures. 

But  sad  changes  had  taken  place  since 
that  date,  most  of  them  within  the  last 
quarter  of  this  century.  Not  only  had  the 
superb  silver  altar-rail,  hanging  lamp,  and 
costly  font  been  coined  down  into  Mexi- 
can dollars,  but  tapestries  and  velvets, 
chasubles  and  copes,  heavy  with  embroid- 
ery in  gold  and  silver,  had  also  found 
their  way  to  the  crucible.  Even  the  in- 
tricate marquetry  floor  had  been  broken 
up,  presumably  in  the  search  for  hidden 
vessels,  and  in  its  place  here  and  there 
were  great  squares  of  heavy  planking 
held  down  by  rude  iron  spikes,  the  heads 
thrust  up  and  kept  bright  by  the  restless 
feet  of  countless  worshippers. 

The  leaders  of  an  impecunious  govern- 
ment executing  a forced  loan  do  not  stop 
at  trifles  like  these  ! 

As  I wandered  about,  comparing  its 
present  shabby  surroundings  with  the  rec- 
ord of  its  past  grandeur,  groups  of  peni- 
tents would  glide  in,  throw  their  rebozos 
from  their  faces,  and  kneel  praying.  Near 
me  a single  figure  closely  muffled  would 


The  Old  Chair  at  Zacatecas  85 


press  her  face  against  the  sliding  panel  of 
the  queer  confessional  box  and  pour  into 
the  ear  of  the  listless  priest  the  story  of 
her  sin.  Over  by  the  altar  a solitary  In- 
dian, wrapped  in  his  zarape,  his  wide 
straw  sombrero  by  his  side,  would  bend 
forward  until  his  forehead  touched  the 
cold  pavement  and  so  remain  motionless. 
About  in  the  aisles  or  prostrate  before 
the  rude  wooden  figures  of  the  saints 
knelt  other  groups  of  worshippers,  often 
an  entire  family  together,  telling  their 
beads  with  their  lips  and  watching  me  with 
their  eyes  as  I noted  in  my  sketch-book 
the  picturesque  bits  about  me.  Finally  I 
completed  the  circuit  of  the  interior,  and 
a flood  of  sunlight  poured  in  through  an 
open  door.  This  led  me  to  the  street  and 
so  on  into  the  market-place. 

No  such  scene  exists  in  any  quarter  of 
the  globe  where  I have  wandered : a 
brilliant  sky  blue  as  a china  plate ; 
blinding  sunlight  ; throngs  of  people  in 
red,  orange,  or  blue ; women  in  rebozos 
and  scarlet  sashes ; men  wearing  Vermil- 
lion zarapes  about  their  shoulders,  with 
wide  hats  of  felt  trimmed  with  silver,  and 


86  A White  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


breeches  of  pink  buckskin  held  together 
down  the  sides  by  silver  buttons  ; donkeys 
piled  high  with  great  sacks  of  silver  ore  ; 
cavaliers  on  horseback  with  murderous 
rowels  in  the  heels  of  their  riding-boots, 
their  Mexican  saddles  festooned  with 
lassos  and  lariats ; soldiers  carrying  car- 
bines and  mounted  on  spirited  horses 
guarding  gangs  of  convicts,  each  one  of 
whom  staggers  under  a basket  of  sand 
held  to  his  back  by  a strap  across  his 
forehead  ; great  flocks  of  sheep  blocking 
up  the  narrow  streets,  driven  by  shep- 
herds on  horseback,  changing  their  pas- 
ture from  one  hillside  to  another ; the 
whole  completes  a picture  as  strange  as 
it  is  unique. 

In  the  centre  of  the  plaza  stands  a curi- 
ous fountain,  surrounded  by  a low  wall 
breast-high.  Around  this  swarm  hun- 
dreds of  women.  Hanging  over  it  are 
half  a hundred  more,  reaching  as  far 
across  the  circular  wall  as  their  arms 
will  permit,  scooping  up  the  thin  sheet 
of  water  into  saucers  with  which  they 
filled  their  jars.  On  the  pavement,  pro- 
tected by  huge  square  umbrellas  of  straw 


The  Old  Chair  at  Zacatecas  $7 


mats,  with  ribs  like  a boy’s  kite,  squat- 
ting Indian  women  sell  oranges,  prickly 
pears,  figs,  lemons,  chcrimoyis,  great  mel- 
ons, and  other  tropical  fruits.  On  the 


corners  of  the  streets,  under  rags  of  awn- 
ing, sit  cobblers  ready  to  cut  and  fit  a 
sandal  while  you  wait,  their  whole  stock 
in  trade  but  a pile  of  scraps  of  sole 
leather,  a trifle  larger  than  the  human 
foot,  some  leather  thongs,  and  a sharp 
curved  knife.  Adjoining  the  market,  fa- 
cing an  open  square,  rises  a great  build- 
ing supported  by  immense  square  pillars 


88  A White  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


forming  an  arcade.  At  the  foot  of  each 
pillar  a garrulous  Mexican  shouts  out  the 
wares  of  his  impromptu  shop  at  half  min- 
ute intervals.  Then  comes  the  alameda 
or  public  garden,  bright  with  flowers  and 
semi-tropical  plants,  with  a summer-house 
of  the  time  - honored  pattern,  octagon, 
lined  with  benches  and  in  the  centre  a 
table  containing,  as  usual,  the  fragments  of 
the  last  lounger’s  lunch. 

Here  I rested  out  of  the  glare  and  din. 

Suddenly,  while  looking  down  upon  the 
street  across  the  green,  listening  to  the 
plash  of  the  fountain  and  watching  the 
senoritas  on  their  way  to  mass,  I saw  a 
rush  of  people  crowding  the  streets  below, 
and  heard  the  clear  musical  notes  of  a 
woman’s  voice  rising  above  the  street 
cries.  As  the  mob  forced  its  way  past 
the  corner  leading  from  the  cathedral  and 
up  the  main  street  fronting  me,  I caught 
sight  of  a ceremony  not  often  seen  in 
Zacate'cas,  certainly  but  rarely  met  with 
elsewhere. 

In  the  middle  of  the  street,  upon  their 
knees  on  the  rough  stones,  walked  or 
rather  crawled  two  native  Indian  girls 


The  Old  Chair  at  Zacatecas  8g 


dressed  in  white,  their  heads  bare,  their 
black  hair  streaming  down  their  backs, 
their  eyes  aflame  with  excitement.  Both 
clasped  to  their  breasts  a small  crucifix. 
Surrounding  them  were  a dozen  half- 
crazed  devotees,  whose  frenzied  cries 
swelled  the  chant  of  the  youngest  peni- 
tent. Suddenly,  from  out  a pulque  shop 
on  the  opposite  corner,  darted  three  men, 
evidently  peons.  With  a quick  movement 
they  divided  the  pressing  crowd,  sprang 
ahead  of  the  girls,  and,  tearing  their  own 
zarapes  from  their  shoulders,  threw  them 
in  turn  in  front  of  the  penitents.  As  the 
girls  crawled  across  them,  the  first  peon 
would  again  seize  his  zarape,  run  ahead, 
and  respread  it. 

“ It  is  a penance,  senor,”  said  a by- 
stander, evidently  a Spaniard,  “ not  often 
seen  here.  The  girls  believe  they  have 
committed  some  great  sin.  They  are  on 
their  way  to  Los  Remedios,  the  chapel  that 
you  see  on  the  hill  yonder.  But  for  these 
drunken  peons  they  would  leave  a bloody 
track.” 

Whether  drunk  or  sober,  by  bigot  or 
scoffer,  it  was  a graceful  act.  Surely  the 


go  A White  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


gallant  Sir  Walter  paid  no  more  courtly 
tribute  to  the  good  Queen  Bess  when  he 
threw  his  cloak  beneath  her  dainty  feet 
than  did  these  poor  peons  to  their  dusky 
sisters. 

But  it  was  still  some  hours  before  the 
padre  would  be  at  leisure  and  I get  defi- 
nite news  of  my  coveted  chair. 

f would  lunch  at  the  Zacatecano,  for- 
merly the  old  Augustinian  convent,  now 
the  only  inn  this  quaint  old  town  can 
boast  of,  take  a run  by  the  tram  to  Gua- 
daloupe  past  the  silver  mines,  and  be  back 
in  time  for  the  sacristan. 

As  I entered,  the  landlord  extended 
both  hands  as  if  he  had  been  my  dearest 
friend.  He  proved  to  be,  later. 

“ Certainly,  seiior.  What  shall  it  be  ? 
We  have  a cutlet ; we  also  have  a salad. 
Beer  ? Plenty.  San  Louis,  Bass,  Mexican. 
Which  shall  I open  for  the  illustrious 
painter  ? ” 

The  painter  ordered  a bottle  of  Bass, 
and  being  thirsty  and  a long  way  from 
home,  and  with  the  remembrance  of  many 
a foaming  tankard  in  other  benighted 
quarters  of  the  earth,  ordered  another. 


The  Old  Chair  at  Zacatecas  gi 


If  the  landlord  was  polite  at  the  first  bot- 
tle, he  became  positively  servile  at  the 
second.  A third  would  have  finished  him, 
and  my  bank  account.  From  the  bill  I 
learned  that  one  bottle  of  Bass  is  equal 
to  the  wages  of  one  able-bodied  man 
working  five  days  ; two  bottles,  the  price 
of  a donkey ; three  bottles,  no  man  can 
calculate. 

Thus  it  is  that  a cruel  government  grinds 
the  masses  ! 

But  the  cutlet  was  tender  and  juicy, 
with  just  a dash  of  garlic ; the  salad  of 
lettuce  of  a wrinkled  and  many  seamed 
variety,  with  sprays  of  red  pepper  cut  ex- 
ceedingly fine  and  scattered  through  it, 
and,  blessed  be  Bass  ! the  priceless  bottles 
were  full  of  the  same  old  amber-colored 
nectar  one  always  draws  from  under  the 
same  old  compact,  tin-foil  covered  corks. 

But  to  Guadaloupe  and  back  before 
mass  ended. 

You  reach  this  suburb  of  Zacatecas  by 
a modern  tramway  which  starts  a car 
every  hour ; a sort  of  Mexican  toboggan- 
slide,  for  the  whole  six  miles  is  down  hill 
by  gravity.  At  the  other  end  is  the  Iglesia 


92 


A White  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


y Capilla  de  Guadaloupc , — an  exquisite 
modern  chapel,  — besides  an  old  garden,  a 
new  market,  a straggling  suburb,  and  vari- 
ous teams  of  mules  to  toboggan  you  back 
again. 

I stepped  from  the  car  and  began  sight- 
seeing. The  chapel,  the  gift  of  a pious 
lady,  is  semi-oriental  with  its  creamy-white 
minarets  shooting  up  from  behind  a mass 
of  dark  cedars  relieved  against  the  intense 
blue  sky ; the  garden  is  overrun  with 
sweet  peas,  poppies,  calla  lilies,  and  gera- 
niums blooming  amidst  fleecy  acacia-trees 
waving  in  the  dazzling  sunlight ; the  mar- 
ket has  the  usual  collection  of  coarse  pot- 
tery and  green  vegetables,  with  gay  booths 
hung  with  bright  zarapes  and  rebozos,  and 
the  straggling  suburb  is  as  picturesque 
and  full  of  color  as  any  other  Mexican 
suburban  village.  I noted  them  all  and 
each  one,  and  they  interested  me  intensely. 

One  other  thing  interested  me  infinitely 
more.  It  was  an  individual  who  came  to 
my  rescue  in  the  midst  of  a dislocated 
Spanish  sentence.  I was  at  the  moment 
in  a curious  old  cloister  adjoining  the  new 
chapel  of  Guadaloupe,  examining  with  the 


The  Old  Chair  at  Zacatecas  g 3 


aid  of  a rotund  attendant  the  diabolical 
pictures  that  lined  its  walls,  when  a tall, 
well-built  young  fellow  wearing  a slouch 
hat  stopped  immediately  in  front  of  the 
most  repulsive  canvas  of  the  collection, 
and,  after  listening  to  my  halting  inquiry, 
supplied  the  missing  word  in  excellent 
Spanish.  Then  shifting  his  hat  to  the  op- 
posite ear,  he  pointed  to  the  supposed 
portrait  of  an  ancient  martyr  surrounded 
by  lurid  flames  behind  iron  bars,  and  re- 
marked quietly  : — 

“ Beastly  ugly  old  saint,  is  n’t  he  ? 
Looks  like  an  underdone  steak  on  a 
grill.” 

“ You  speak  English,  then  ? ” 

“ Why  not  ? You  would  n’t  want  me  to 
cling  to  this  jargon  forever,  would  you  ? ” 

From  that  instant  the  collection  was 
forgotten. 

He  was  about  thirty  years  of  age,  with 
a bronzed  face,  curling  mustachios,  and 
arching  eyebrows  that  shaded  a pair  of 
twinkling  brown  eyes.  A sort  of  devil- 
may-care  air  seemed  to  pervade  him, 
coupled  with  a certain  recklessness  dis- 
cernible even  in  the  way  he  neglected  his 
upper  vest  buttons,  and  tossed  one  end  of 


94  4 White  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


his  cravat  over  his  shoulder.  He  wore  a 
large,  comfortable,  easily  adjusted  slouch 
hat  which  he  kept  constantly  in  motion, 
using  it  as  some  men  do  their  hands  to 
emphasize  their  sentences.  If  the  an- 
nouncement was  somewhat  startling  the 
hat  would  be  flattened  out  against  the 
back  of  his  head,  the  broad  brim  stand- 
ing out  in  a circle,  and  framing  the  face, 
which  changed  with  every  thought  behind 
it.  If  of  a confidential  nature  it  was 
pulled  down  on  the  side  next  to  you  like 
the  pirate’s  in  the  play.  If  his  communi- 
cation might  offend  ears  polite,  he  used 
one  edge  of  it  as  a lady  would  a fan,  and, 
from  behind  it,  gave  you  a morsel  of  scan- 
dal with  such  point  and  pith  that  you  for- 
gave its  raciness  because  of  the  crisp  and 
breezy  way  with  which  it  was  imparted. 

He  hailed  from  New  Orleans ; had 
lived  in  Zacate'cas  two  years ; in  western 
Mexico  ten  more  • was  an  engineer  by 
profession ; had  constructed  part  of  the 
International  road,  and  was  now  looking 
after  some  of  its  interests  in  Zacatecas. 

“ My  name  ? Moon.  Fits  exactly,  my 
dear  fellow,  for  I ’m  generally  up  all  night. 


The  Old  Chair  at  Zacatecas  95 


Been  here  long?”  He  rattled  on.  “You 
ought  to  stay  a month.  Richest  town  in 
all  Mexico.  Just  a solid  silver  mine  un- 
der your  feet  all  the  way  from  here  to 
Zacatecas.  Best  people  I know  anywhere, 
and  more  pretty  girls  to  the  square  mile 
than  any  spot  on  this  terrestrial.” 

And  then  followed  a running  descrip- 
tion of  his  life  here  and  at  home,  inter- 
spersed with  various  accounts  of  his 
scrapes  and  escapades,  from  which  I gath- 
ered that  he  knew  everybody  in  Zacate- 
cas, including  the  priest,  the  command- 
ant, and  the  pretty  girl  in  the  balcony. 
This  biographical  sketch  was  further  en- 
riched by  such  additional  details  as  his 
once  filling  a holy  father  full  of  cognac 
to  induce  him  to  grant  a right  of  way  for 
a railroad  through  the  convent  garden  ; 
of  his  being  helped  out  of  prison  by  the 
governor,  who  was  his  friend  and  who 
locked  up  his  accuser ; and  of  his  making 
love  to  a certain  charming  senorita  when- 
ever he  got  a chance,  which,  he  declared, 
was  now  precious  seldom,  owing  to  a 
cross-eyed  mother  who  saw  both  ways  at 
once,  and  a duenna  who  hated  him. 


g6  A White  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


Would  I take  the  tram  and  go  back  to 
Zacate'cas  with  him  ? 

Yes,  if  he  would  stop  at  the  cathedral 
at  live  and  wait  until  vespers  were  over. 

“ So  you  have  caught  on,  have  you  ? ” 
Then  in  a confidential  manner  : “ Come, 
now,  give  me  her  name.  Reckon  I know 
her.  Bet  it ’s  the  black-eyed  girl  with  the 
high  comb.  She ’s  always  cutting  her  eye 
at  the  last  stranger.” 

It  was  difficult  to  make  this  dare-devil  of 
a Southerner  understand  that  my  engage- 
ment was  entirely  with  a simple-minded, 
mild-eyed  old  sacristan,  and  not  with  one 
of  Zacate'cas’  bewitching  senoritas. 

“ What  sacristan  ? Old  Miguel  ? A 
greasy-looking,  bandy-legged  old  bald- 
head  ? Wears  a green  jacket  ? * 

I admitted  that  the  description  classi- 
fied him  to  some  extent. 

Moon  broke  out  into  a laugh  that 
started  the  six  mules  in  a gallop  up  the 
tramway. 

Did  he  know  him  ? Well,  he  should 
think  so.  Best  post-office  in  Zacatecas, 
especially  at  very  early  mass.  What  was 
he  doing  for  me  ? Smuggling  letters  ? 


The  Old  Chair  at  Zacatecas  97 


No,  buying  a chair. 

Moon  laid  one  hand  tenderly  on  my 
shoulder,  shifted  his  slouch  hat  over  his 
right  ear,  and  in  his  peculiar  vernacular 
characterized  my  statement  as  “diapho- 
nous,”  and  then  in  a coaxing  tone  de- 
manded the  name  of  the  girl. 

“ My  friend,  there  is  no  girl.  Wait 
until  we  pass  the  cathedral.  It  is  now 
five  o’clock.  The  sacristan  is  expecting 
me  in  the  garden  and  he  shall  tell  you  the 
rest.  There  he  is  now  waiting  under  the 
palms.” 

“ See  here,  Miguel,”  broke  in  Moon  as 
we  alighted,  ignoring  the  sacristan’s  ob- 
sequious salutations.  “ What  about  this 
girl’s  chair  ? Come,  out  with  it.” 

Miguel  looked  at  Moon  and  then  turned 
to  me  and  smiled  grimly. 

“ It  is  always  the  senoritas  with  senor 
Moon,”  he  said,  and  then  he  repeated  our 
interview  of  the  morning,  winding  up  with 
my  incomprehensible  infatuation  for  the 
four-legged  relic,  and  his  unsuccessful  ef- 
forts with  the  padre  to  sell  or  exchange  it 
for  any  number  of  new  chairs,  great  or 
small. 


g8  A White  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


“ It  is  really  impossible,  seiior  painter. 
The  padre  says  it  is  an  old  one  of  many 
years,”  continued  the  sacristan. 

“ If  the  painter  wants  the  old  ruin,  he 
shall  have  it,  you  bow-legged  old  mail- 
bag.” 

“ The  padre  will  not,  Seiior  Moon  ; not 
for  ten  new  ones.  I have  exhausted 
everything.” 

“ What  padre  ? ” replied  Moon. 

“ Padre  Ignatius.” 

“Old  Ig  is  it?  No,  he  wouldn’t  part 
with  an  adobe  brick.”  Then  turning  to 
me  : “ What  did  you  tell  him  you  wanted 
it  for  ? ” 

“ For  my  studio.” 

“ Studio  be . Go,  Miguel,  and  tell 

Padre  Ignatius  that  my  very  old  and  very 
dear  friend,  the  painter,  is  a devout  Cath- 
olic from  the  holy  city  of  New  York ; that 
he  has  an  uncle,  a holy  father,  in  fact,  a 
bishop,  who  is  very  poor  and  who  charged 
him  to  bring  from  the  ancient  city  of  Za- 
catecas a sacred  relic  from  this  very 
church,  and  that  this  aged,  low-backed  old 
cripple  of  a chair  will  exactly  fill  the  bill. 
Go  ! Vete  ! But  stop  ! ” (In  a lower 


The  Old  Chair  at  Zacatecas,  gg 


tone.)  “ Did  you  give  it  to  her  — the  lit- 
tle one  — when  — after  early  mass  ? 
Bueno  ! ” 

A long  wait  at  the  door  of  the  sac- 
risty ; then  a footfall  in  the  darkening 
twilight. 

“ Sehor,  the  padre  says  he  will  consider. 
The  price  is  of  course  very  small,  and  but 
that  your  uncle  the  holy  bishop  is  very 
poor  it  could  not  be,  but  as  a”  — 

“ Hold  up,  Miguel.  All  right.  Send 
the  chair  to  the  painter’s  lodgings.” 

When  I reached  the  church  door  and 
the  street  and  looked  back,  I could  see 
the  red  towers  of  the  cathedral  gleaming 
pink  and  yellow  in  the  fading  light  of  the 
afterglow,  and  far  up  the  crooked  street  I 
could  hear  my  voluble  friend  of  an  after- 
noon whistling  an  air  from  Norma. 

At  the  door  of  my  lodgings  I found  the 
chair. 


CHAPTER  VI. 


No  one  at  all  famil- 
iar with  the  history  of 
Mexico  can  wander 
about  the  streets  and  suburbs  of  this  its 
principal  city  without  seeing  at  every  turn 
some  evidence  of  the  vast  changes  which 
have  marked  its  past,  and  which  have 
made  its  story  so  thrilling. 

If  Prescott’s  pleasing  fiction  of  Teo- 
callis  towering  to  the  stars,  the  smoke  of 
whose  sacrifices  curled  upwards  day  and 
night ; of  gorgeous  temples,  of  hanging 


IN  THE  CITY’S  STREETS. 


In  the  City's  Streets 


101 


and  floating  gardens,  myriads  of  feather- 
clad  warriors  armed  with  spear  and  shield, 
swarms  of  canoes  brilliant  as  tropical 
birds,  and  of  a court  surrounding  Monte- 
zuma and  Guatimotzin,  more  lavish  than 
the  wildest  dream  of  the  Orient, — if  all 
this  is  true,  — and  I prefer  to  believe  it 
rather  than  break  the  gods  of  my  child- 
hood,— so  also  is  the  great  plaza  of  the 
cathedral,  and  the  noble  edifice  itself  with 
splendid  facade  and  majestic  twin  towers, 
the  hundreds  of  churches  about  which 
cluster  the  remains  of  convent,  monas- 
tery, and  hospital ; the  wide  paseos,  the 
tropical  gardens,  the  moss -bearded  cy- 
presses four  centuries  old  under  which  the 
disheartened  Aztec  monarch  mourned  the 
loss  of  his  kingdom,  the  palaces  of  the 
viceroys,  the  alamedas  and  their  foun- 
tains. 

If  you  push  aside  the  broad -leaved 
plants  in  the  grand  plaza  you  will  find 
heaped  up  and  half  covered  with  tangled 
vines  the  broken  fragments  of  rudely  carved 
stones,  once  the  glory  of  an  Aztec  temple. 
If  you  climb  down  the  steep  hill  under 
Chapultepec  and  break  away  the  matted 


102  A White  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


underbrush,  you  will  discover  the  muti- 
lated effigy  of  Ahuitzotl,  the  last  of  Mon- 
tezuma’s predecessors,  stretched  out  on 
the  natural  rock,  the  same  the  ancient 
sculptor  selected  for  his  chisel  in  the  days 
when  the  groves  about  him  echoed  with 
song,  and  when  these  same  gnarled  cy- 
presses gave  grateful  shadow  to  priest, 
emperor,  and  slave. 

Stroll  out  to  Santa  Anita ; examine  the 
chinampas — the  floating  gardens  of  the 
old  Mexican  race.  They  are  still  there, 
overgrown  with  weeds  and  anchored  by 
neglect.  As  in  the  old  times  so  now  on 
every  feast  day  the  narrow  canal  of  las 
Vigas  leading  to  the  chinampas  is  crowded 
with  boats  ; the  maidens  bind  wreaths  of 
poppies  about  their  heads,  and  the  dance 
and  song  and  laughter  of  the  light-hearted 
race  — light-hearted  when  even  for  a day 
they  lay  their  burdens  down  — still  rings 
out  in  the  twilight  air. 

The  two  civilizations,  the  pagan  and 
the  Christian,  are  still  distinct  to  those 
who  look  below  the  surface.  Time  has 
not  altered  them  materially.  Even  to-day 
in  the  hollows  of  the  mountains  and  amid 


In  the  City's  Streets  103 

the  dense  groves  on  the  tropical  slopes, 
the  natives  steal  away  and  prostrate  them- 
selves before  the  stone  images  of  their 
gods,  and  in  the  churches  of  the  more  re- 
mote provinces  the  parish  priest  has  found 
more  than  once  the  rude  sculptured  idol 
concealed  behind  the  Christian  altar.  1 o 
the  kneeling  peon  the  ugly  stone  is  his 
sole  hope  of  safety  and  forgiveness. 

Important  changes  are  taking  place, 
however,  which  predict  a happier  future 
for  Mexico.  The  monastery  of  .San  Hipo- 
lito,  once  the  palace  of  Bucareli,  now  con- 
tains a printing  press.  The  convent  of 
Nuestra  Senora  de  la  Concepcion  is  a pub- 
lic school.  The  church  of  San  Agustin, 
a public  library,  and  through  the  silent 
arches  of  many  cloisters,  and  through 
many  a secluded  convent  garden  run 
broad  avenues  filled  with  the  gay  life  of 
the  metropolis.  Moreover  to-day,  every 
man,  be  he  pagan,  Christian,  or  Jew, 
may  worship  his  particular  god  according 
to  the  dictates  of  his  own  conscience,  in 
any  form  that  pleases  him. 

Nothing  so  pointedly  marks  for  me  the 
strange  contrasts  which  these  changes 


104  ^ While  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


have  brought  about,  as  my  own  quarters 
at  the  Hotel  Jardin. 

I am  living  in  two  rooms  at  the  end  of 
a long  balcony  overlooking  a delicious 
garden,  redolent  with  azaleas,  pomegran- 
ates, and  jasmine,  in  full  bloom.  I am 
at  the  extreme  end  of  the  balcony,  which 
is  several  hundred  feet  long,  and  next  to 
me  is  a stained  and  battered  wall,  in- 
crusted  with  moss  and  lichen,  supported 
by  buttresses  running  sheer  into  the  pop- 
py beds.  This  wall  sustains  one  side  of 
a building  which  is  surmounted  by  a 
quaint  tile  roof. 

My  rooms  are  high-ceiled  and  spacious, 
and  floored  with  red  brick.  The  walls, 
judged  from  the  width  of  the  door  jambs, 
are  of  unusual  strength. 

At  the  other  end  of  the  balcony,  from 
out  the  roof,  rises  a dome  which  glis- 
tens in  the  setting  sun.  It  is  covered 
with  exquisite  Spanish  tiles  of  blue  and 
yellow,  each  one  of  which  forms  part  of 
a picture  telling  the  story  of  the  Cross. 
Beyond  the  garden,  several  squares  away, 
cut  sharp  against  the  afternoon  sky,  curves 
the  beautiful  dome  of  the  cathedral  of  San 


In  the  City’s  Streets 


105 


Francisco,  beneath  whose  frescoed  roof 
once  rested  the  bones  of  Cortez. 


Scarce  twenty-five  years  ago  the  square 
bounded  by  this  little  dome  with  the  Span- 
ish tiles,  this  great  dome  of  the  cathedral, 
and  the  outside  of  the  mould-stained  con- 
vent wall,  formed  the  great  religious  foun- 
dation of  San  Francisco,  the  richest  and 
most  powerful  of  the  ecclesiastical  hold- 
ings in  Mexico.  From  this  spot  radiated 
the  commanding  influence  of  the  order. 
Here  masses  were  heard  by  Cortez.  Here 
through  three  centuries  the  great  festi- 


io6  A White  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


vals  of  the  church  were  taken  part  in  by 
the  viceroys.  Here  was  sung  the  first 
Te  Deum  of  Mexican  independence,  and 
here  seventeen  years  later  were  held  the 
magnificent  funeral  services  of  the  libera- 
tor Yturbide. 

How  great  the  changes  ! To-day  a Prot- 
estant congregation  worships  in  the  grand 
old  cathedral,  its  interior  a horror  of 
whitewash  and  emptiness  ; a modern  ho- 
tel supplants  the  old  infirmary  and  palace 
of  the  commissioners  general  of  the  or- 
der ; a public  livery  stables  its  horses  in 
the  refectory,  and  four  broad  streets  trav- 
erse the  length  and  breadth  of  the  sacred 
ground,  irrespective  of  chancel,  cloister, 
or  garden.  Through  the  top  of  the 
exquisite  cupola  surmounting  the  little 
glazed  tile  dome  covering  the  chapel  of 
San  Antonio  is  thrust  a sheet  iron  stove- 
pipe. Within  this  once  beautiful  house 
of  prayer,  the  space  covered  by  the  altar 
is  now  occupied  by  an  enormous  French 
range,  upon  which  is  ruined  all  the  food 
of  the  Hotel  Tardin.  In  the  delightful 
arched  windows  piles  of  dirty  dishes  re- 
place the  swinging  lamps  ; near  an  exit 


In  the  City’s  Streets 


toy 


where  once  stood  the  font,  a plate-warmer 
of  an  eastern  pattern  gives  out  an  oily 
odor  ; and  where  the  acolytes  swung  their 
censers,  to-day  swarms  a perspiring  mob 
of  waiters  urgent  to  be  served  by  a chef 
who  officiates  in  the  exact  spot  where  the 
holy  archbishop  celebrated  high  mass. 

High  on  the  cornice  of  the  dome  still 
clings  the  figure  of  San  Domingo.  His 


wooden  bones  and  carved  teeth  should 
rattle  and  chatter  themselves  loose  as  he 
gazes  down  upon  the  awful  sacrilege,  for 
above  him,  where  once  the  wings  of  the 


io8  A White  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


Dove  of  the  Holy  Spirit  overspread  the 


awe-hushed  penitents,  now  twists  with  a 
convenient  iron  elbow  a rusty  pipe,  that 
carries  the  foul  breath  of  this  impious 


In  the  City’s  Streets 


109 


range  into  the  pure  air  of  the  heaven 
above. 

As  I sit  on  my  section  of  the  balcony 
and  paint,  I can  see  within  a few  yards  of 
my  easel  an  open  window,  framed  in  the 
mouldy  convent  wall.  The  golden  sun- 
light streams  in,  and  falls  upon  the 
weather-stained  stones,  and  massive  iron 
bound  shutter,  touches  a strip  of  dainty 
white  curtain  and  rests  lovingly  upon 
the  head  of  a peon  girl  who  sits  all  day 
sewing,  and  crooning  to  herself  a quaint 
song.  She  watches  me  now  and  then 
with  great  wondering  eyes.  As  I work 
I hear  the  low  hum  of  a sewing-machine 
keeping  time  to  her  melody.  Suddenly 
there  is  a quick  movement  among  the 
matted  leaves  clinging  to  the  festering 
wall,  and  from  out  a dark  crevice  creeps 
a slimy  snake-like  lizard.  He  listens  and 
raises  his  green  head  and  glides  noise- 
lessly into  the  warm  sunlight.  There  he 
stretches  his  lithe  body  and  basks  lazily. 

I laid  down  my  brushes,  and  fell  into 
a revery.  The  sunlight,  the  dark-eyed  In- 
dian girl,  the  cheery  hum  of  her  shuttle, 
and  the  loathsome  lizard  crawling  from 


lio  A White  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


out  the  ruins  of  a dead  convent  wall  told 
me  the  whole  story  of  Mexico. 

The  old  church  of  San  Hipolito  stands 
within  a stone’s  throw  of  the  spot  where 
Alvarado,  Cortez’s  greatest  captain,  is  said 
to  have  made  his  famous  leap  on  that 
eventful  night  of  July  i,  1520,  the  Noche 
Triste.  Indeed,  it  was  built  by  one  of  the 
survivors  of  that  massacre,  Juan  Garido,  in 
commemoration  of  its  horrors.  Not  the 
present  structure,  but  a little  chapel  of 
adobe,  which  eighty  years  later  was  pulled 
down  to  make  room  for  the  edifice  of  to- 
day. You  can  still  see  upon  the  outside 
wall  surrounding  the  atrium  of  the  pres- 
ent building  a commemorative  stone  tab- 
let, bearing  alto-relievos  of  arms,  trophies, 
and  devices  of  the  ancient  Mexicans,  with 
this  inscription  : — 

“ So  great  was  the  slaughter  of  Span- 
iards by  the  Aztecs  in  this  place  on  the 
night  of  July  1,  1520,  named  for  this 
reason  the  Dismal  Night,  that  after  having 
in  the  following  year  reentered  the  city 
triumphantly,  the  conquerors  resolved  to 
build  here  a chapel,  to  be  called  the 
Chapel  of  the  Martyrs  ; and  which  should 


In  the  City's  Streets 


i / / 


be  dedicated  to  San  Hipolito,  because  the 
capture  of  the  city  occurred  upon  that 
saint’s  day.” 

Janvier  says:  “Until  the  year  1812, 
there  was  celebrated  annually  on  the  13th 
of  August  at  this  church  a solemn  cere- 
mony, both  religious  and  civil,  known  as 
the  Procession  of  the  Banner  ( Paseo  del 
pendori),  in  which  the  viceroy  and  the  great 
officers  of  the  State  and  the  nobility  to- 
gether with  the  archbishops  and  dignita- 
ries of  the  Church  took  part.  Its  princi- 
pal feature  was  the  carrying  in  state  of 
the  crimson  banner  formerly  borne  by 
the  conquerors,  and  still  preserved  in  the 
National  Museum.” 

There  was  nothing  to  indicate  the  ex- 
istence of  any  such  ceremony  the  day  I 
strolled  into  its  quiet  courtyard.  The 
wooden  gates,  sagging  and  rotting  on 
their  hinges,  were  thrown  back  invitingly, 
but  the  broad  flags  of  the  pavement,  over- 
grown with  weeds  and  stubby  grass  thrust 
up  between  the  cracks,  showed  but  too 
plainly  how  few  entered  them. 

Some  penitents  crossed  the  small  in- 
closure in  front  of  me,  and  disappeared 


112  A White  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


within  the  cool  doorway  of  the  church. 
I turned  to  the  left,  hugged  the  grate- 
ful shadow  of  the  high  walls,  reached 
the  angle,  opened  my  easel  and  began  to 
paint. 

It  has  a very  dignified  portal,  this  old 
church  of  San  Hipolito,  with  half  doors 
panelled  and  painted  green,  and  with 
great  whitewashed  statues  of  broken-nosed 
saints  flanking  each  side,  and  I was  soon 
lost  in  the  study  of  its  ornament  and 
color.  For  a while  nobody  disturbed  me 
or  gave  me  more  than  a passing  glance. 

Presently  I was  conscious  that  an  old 
fellow  watering  some  plants  across  the 
court  was  watching  me  anxiously.  When 
I turned  again  he  stood  beside  me. 

“ Senor,  why  do  you  sit  and  look  at  the 
church  ? ” 

“ To  take  it  home  with  me,  mi  amigo." 

“ That  cannot  be.  I will  tell  the  padre.” 

He  was  gone  before  I could  explain.  In 
five  minutes  he  returned,  pale  and  trem- 
bling and  without  his  hat.  Behind  him 
came  an  old  priest  with  a presence  like  a 
benediction.  Clinging  to  his  hands  were 
two  boys,  one  with  eyes  like  diamonds. 


In  the  City’s  Streets  / / 5 

Before  I could  explain  the  old  man’s 
face  lighted  up  with  a kindly  smile,  and 
he  extended  his  hand. 

“Nicolas  is  very  foolish,  senor.  Do 
not  mind  him.  Stay  where  you  are. 
After  service  you  can  sit  within  the 
church  and  paint  the  interior,  if  you  like. 
If  the  boys  will  not  annoy  you,  please  let 
them  watch  you.  It  will  teach  them  some- 
thing.” 

The  little  fellows  did  not  wait  for  any 
further  discussion.  They  both  kissed  his 
hand,  and  crept  behind  my  easel.  The 
youngest,  with  the  diamond  eyes,  Pa- 
checo, told  me  without  drawing  his 
breath  his  name,  his  age,  where  he  went 
to  school,  that  the  good  padre  was  his 
uncle,  that  his  father  had  been  dead  for- 
ever almost,  and  that  they  lived  across 
the  way  with  their  mother.  The  oldest 
stood  by  silently  watching  every  move- 
ment of  my  brush  as  if  his  life  depended 
on  it. 

“ And  do  you  love  the  padre  ? ” I 
asked,  turning  towards  him. 

“ Yes.”  He  replied  in  a quick  decided 
tone  as  if  it  was  a sacrilege  to  question 


114  ^ White  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


it.  “ And  so  would  you.  Everybody, 
everybody  loves  the  padre.” 

“ Is  it  not  true  ? ” This  last  to  the 
sacristan,  who  had  come  out  to  see  the 
painter,  the  service  having  begun. 

The  sacristan  not  only  confirmed  this, 
but  gave  me  a running  account  of  the  mis- 
fortunes of  the  church  even  in  his  day,  of 
its  great  poverty,  of  the  changes  he  had 
seen  himself.  No  more  processions,  no 
more  grand  masses ; on  Easter  Sunday 
there  was  not  even  money  enough  to  buy 
candles.  He  remembered  a lamp  as  high 
as  this  wall  that  was  stolen  by  the  govern- 
ment, — this  in  a whisper  behind  his 
hand,  — all  solid  silver,  and  a pair  of  can- 
dlesticks as  big  round  as  the  tree  yon- 
der, all  melted  down  to  pay  for  soldiers. 
Caramba  ! It  was  terrible.  But  for  the 
holy  padre  there  would  be  no  service  at 
all.  When  the  padre  was  young  he  lived 
in  the  priest’s  house  and  rode  in  his  car- 
riage. Now  he  is  an  old  man,  and  must 
live  with  his  sister  over  a posada.  The 
world  was  certainly  coming  to  an  end. 

I let  the  old  sacristan  ramble  along, 
wishing  the  service  over,  that  I might  see 


In  the  City's  Streets  1 15 

again  the  good  padre  whom  everybody 
loved. 

Soon  the  handful  of  people  who,  dur- 
ing the  previous  hour,  had  stolen  in,  as  it 
were,  one  by  one,  crowded  up  the  door- 
way and  dispersed.  It  was  a meagre 
gathering  at  best. 

Then  the  old  priest  came  out  into  the 
sunlight,  and  shaded  his  eyes  with  his 
hand,  searching  for  me  in  the  shadowed 
angle  of  the  wall.  As  he  walked  across 
the  court  I had  time  to  note  the  charm- 
ing dignity  of  his  manner,  and  the  al- 
most childlike  smile  that  played  across 
his  features.  His  hair  was  silver  white, 
his  black  frock  faded  and  patched,  though 
neatly  kept,  and  his  broad  hat  of  a pat- 
tern and  date  of  long  ago.  The  boys 
sprang  up,  ran  to  him,  caught  him  about 
the  knees,  and  kissed  his  hands.  Not  as 
if  it  was  a mark  of  devotion  or  respect, 
but  as  if  they  could  not  help  it.  The  sac- 
ristan uncovered  his  head.  For  myself, 
I must  confess  that  I was  bareheaded  and 
on  my  feet  before  I knew  it.  Would  I 
come  to  his  house  and  have  a cup  of  cof- 
fee with  him  ? It  was  but  across  the 


n 6 A IVhite  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


street.  The  sacristan  would  see  that  my 
traps  were  not  disturbed.  At  this  the 
boys  danced  up  and  down,  broke  through 
the  gate,  and  when  we  reached  the  nar- 
row door  that  led  to  the  balcony  above, 
Pacheco  had  already  dragged  his  mother 
to  the  railing,  to  see  the  painter  the  good 
padre  was  bringing  home. 

It  was  a curious  home  for  a priest. 
There  were  but  three  rooms,  all  fronting 
on  a balcony  of  the  second  floor,  overlook- 
ing a garden  in  which  clothes  were  dry- 
ing among  and  above  the  foliage.  It  was 
clean  and  cheery,  however.  Some  pots  of 
flowers  bloomed  in  the  windows,  and 
there  was  a rocking-chair  covered  with 
a cotton  cloth,  a lounge  with  cushions, 
a few  books  and  knickknacks,  besides  a 
square  table  holding  a brass  crucifix  and 
two  candles.  In  the  corner  of  the  adjoin- 
ing room  was  an  iron  bedstead  and  a few 
articles  of  furniture.  This  was  where  the 
padre  slept. 

“ The  times  are  changed,  good  father  ? ” 
I asked,  when  he  had  finished  filling  his 
cup. 

“ Yes,  my  son,  and  for  the  worse.”  And 


In  the  City's  Streets 


"7 


then  clearly  but  without  bitterness,  or  any 
other  feeling  apparently,  except  the  deep- 
est sorrow,  he  told  me  the  story  of  the 
downfall  of  his  church  in  Mexico.  It  is 
needless  to  repeat  it  here.  The  old  fa- 
ther thought  only  of  the  pomp,  and  splen- 
dor, and  power  for  good,  of  the  religion 
he  loved,  and  could  not  see  the  degrada- 
tion of  the  days  he  mourned.  Within  a 
stone’s  throw  of  where  we  sat  the  flowers 
were  blooming,  and  the  palms  waving 
in  the  plaza  of  San  Diego,  over  the  ex- 
act spot  where,  less  than  a century  ago, 
the  smoke  of  the  auto  de  fe  curled  away 
in  the  sunlight.  I did  not  remind  him 
of  it.  His  own  life  had  been  so  full  of 
every  good  deed,  and  Christian  charity, 
and  all  his  own  waking  hours  had  been 
so  closely  spent  either  at  altar  or  bedside, 
that  he  could  not  have  understood  how 
terrible  could  be  the  power  of  the  Church 
he  revered,  perverted  and  misused. 

When  he  ceased  he  drew  a deep  sigh, 
rose  from  his  chair,  and  disappeared  into 
the  adjoining  room.  In  a few  moments  he 
returned,  bearing  in  his  arms  a beautiful 
cope  embroidered  in  silver  on  white  satin. 


/ 1 8 A White  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


“This,  my  son,”  said  he,  “is  the  last 
relic  of  value  in  San  Hipolito.  It  is,  as 
you  see,  very  precious,  and  very  old.  A 
present  from  Pope  Innocent  XII.,  who 
sent  it  to  the  brotherhood,  the  Hipolitos, 
in  the  year  1700.  The  pieces  that  came 
with  it,  the  chasubles,  stole,  and  other 
vestments  are  gone.  This  I keep  by  my 
bedside.” 

He  folded  it  carefully,  returned  it  to  its 
hiding-place,  and  accompanied  me  to  the 
outer  door.  I can  see  him  now,  his  white 
hair  glistening  in  the  light,  the  boys  cling- 
ing to  his  hands. 


CHAPTER  VII. 


ON  THE  I’ASEO. 


The  Eng- 

lish 

dogcart 

a n d 

the 

French  bon- 

n e t 

have 

just 

broken 

out 

in  the 

best 

society 

of 

Mexico. 

The 

disease 

dou 

b t less 

came  in  with 

the 

rail- 

roads. 

At  pres- 

ent  the  cases  are  sporadic,  and  only  the 
young  caballero  who  knows  Piccadilly  and 
the  gay  senorita  who  has  watched  the  bril- 
liant procession  pass  under  the  Arc  de  1 ri- 
o in phe  are  affected.  But  it  is  nevertheless 


120  A White  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


evident  that  in  the  larger  cities  the  con- 
tagion is  spreading,  and  that  in  a few 
years  it  will  become  epidemic. 

Nowhere  should  the  calamity  of  a 
change  in  national  habits  and  costumes 
be  more  regretted  than  here.  Stroll  up 
the  Paseo  de  la  Reforma  at  sundown,  — 
the  Champs  filyse'es  of  Mexico,  — and 
watch  the  endless  procession  of  open 
carriages  filled  with  beautiful  women  with 
filmy  mantillas  shading  their  dark  eyes, 
the  countless  riders  mounted  on  spirited 
horses,  with  saddle  pommels  hung  with 
lasso  and  lariat ; run  your  eye  along  the 
sidewalk  thronged  with  people,  and  over 
the  mounted  soldiers  in  intermittent 
groups,  policing  the  brilliant  pageant,  and 
tell  me  if  anywhere  else  in  the  world  you 
have  seen  so  rich  and  novel  a sight. 

A carriage  passes,  and  a velvet-eyed 
beauty  in  saluting  an  admirer  drops  her 
handkerchief.  In  an  instant  he  wheels, 
dashes  forward,  and  before  you  can 
think,  he  has  picked  up  the  dainty  per- 
fumed cambric  from  the  dust  without 
leaving  his  saddle,  and  all  with  the  ease 
and  grace  of  a Comanche. 


On  the  Paseo 


121 


Should  a horse  become  unmanageable 
and  plunge  down  the  overcrowded  thor- 
oughfare, there  are  half  a dozen  riders 
within  sight  who  can  overtake  him  before 
he  has  run  a stone’s  throw,  loop  a lasso 
over  his  head,  and  tumble  him  into  the 
road.  Not  ranchmen  out  for  an  afternoon 
airing,  but  kid-gloved  dandies  in  white 
buckskin  and  silver,  with  waxed  mous- 
taches, who  learned  this  trick  on  the  ha- 
ciendas when  they  were  boys,  and  to 
whom  it  is  as  easy  as  breathing.  It  is 
difficult  to  imagine  any  succeeding  gen- 
eration sitting  back-a-back  to  a knee- 
breeched  flunkey,  and  driving  a curtailed 
cob  before  a pair  of  lumbering  cart- 
wheels. 

Analyze  the  features  of  a Spanish  or 
Mexican  beauty.  The  purple-black  hair, 
long  drooping  lashes,  ivory-white  skin,  the 
sinking,  half  - swooning  indolence  of  her 
manner.  Note  how  graceful  and  becom- 
ing are  the  clinging  folds  of  her  mantilla, 
falling  to  the  shoulders,  and  losing  itself 
in  the  undulating  lines  of  her  exquisite 
figure.  Imagine  a cockchafer  of  a bonnet, 
an  abomination  of  beads,  bows,  and  ban- 


/ 22  A White  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


gles,  surmounting  this  ideal  inamorata. 
The  shock  is  about  as  great  as  if  some 
scoffer  tied  a seaside  hat  under  the  chin 
of  the  Venus  de  Milo. 

Verily  the  illustrated  newspaper  and 
the  ready-made  clothing  man  have  re- 
duced the  costume  of  the  civilized  and 
semi-barbarous  world  to  the  level  of  the 
commonplace  ! I thank  my  lucky  stars  that 
I still  know  a few  out-of-the-way  corners 
where  the  castanet  and  high-heeled  shoe, 
the  long,  flowing,  many-colored  tunic,  the 
white  sabot  and  snowy  cap,  and  the  san- 
dal and  sombrero,  are  still  left  to  delight 
me  with  their  picturesqueness,  their  har- 
mony of  color  and  grace. 

All  these  reflections  came  to  me  as  I 
strolled  up  the  Reforma,  elbowing  my  way 
along,  avoiding  the  current,  or  crossing  it, 
for  the  shelter  of  one  of  the  tree  trunks 
lining  the  sidewalks,  behind  which  I made 
five-minute  outlines  of  the  salient  features 
of  the  moving  panorama.  When  I reached 
the  statue  of  Columbus,  the  crowd  be- 
came uncomfortable,  especially  that  part 
which  had  formed  a “cue,”  with  the  head 
looking  over  my  sketch-book,  and  so  I 


On  the  Paseo 


123 


hailed  a cab  and  drove  away  towards  the 
castle  of  Chapultepec.  The  Paseo  ends 
at  this  famous  spot. 

The  fortress  is  built  upon  a hill  that 
rises  some  two  hundred  feet  above  the 
valley,  and  is  environed  by  a noble  park 
and  garden,  above  which  tower  the  fa- 
mous groves  of  hoary  cypresses.  On  this 
commanding  eminence  once  stood  the 
palace  of  Montezuma,  if  we  may  believe 
the  traditions.  Indeed,  Prescott  dilates 
with  enthusiasm  upon  the  details  of  its 
splendor,  and  of  its  luxuriant  adoi  nment, 
these  same  cypresses  playing  an  impor- 
tant part  in  the  charming  extravaganza 
with  which  he  delighted  our  youth.  The 
records  say  that  when  the  haughty  Span- 
iard knocked  at  the  city’s  gate  and  de- 
manded his  person,  his  treasure,  and  his 
arms,  the  vacillating  monarch  retired  to 
the  cool  shadows  of  these  then  ancient 
groves,  collected  together  a proper  per- 
centage of  his  wives,  and  wept.  Ihis 
may  be  fiction,  and  that  pious  old  monk, 
Bernal  Diaz,  Cortez’s  scribe,  inspired  by 
a lively  sense  of  the  value  of  his  own 
head,  and  with  a loyal  desire  to  save 


124  A White  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


his  master’s,  may  alone  be  responsible 
for  it. 

For  this  I care  little.  The  trees  are 
still  here,  the  very  same  old  gnarled  and 
twisted  trunks.  The  tawny  Indian  in 
feathers,  the  grim  cavalier  in  armor  ; fine 
ladies  in  lace  ; hidalgos  in  velvet,  all  the 
gay  throngs  who  have  enlivened  these 
shady  aisles,  each  bedecked  after  the  man- 
ner and  custom  of  their  times,  are  gone. 
But  the  old  trees  still  stand. 

What  the  great  kings  of  Tenochtitlan 
saw  as  they  looked  up  into  their  shelter- 
ing branches,  1 see : the  ribbed  brown 
bark  sparkling  with  gray  green  lichen  ; 
the  sweep  of  the  wrinkled  trunk  rushing 
upward  into  outspreading  arms  ; the  clear 
sky  turquoised  amid  matted  foliage  ; the 
gray  moss  waving  in  the  soft  air.  With 
these  alive  and  above  me,  I can  imagine 
the  rest,  and  so  I pick  out  a particularly 
comfortable  old  root  that  curves  out  from 
beneath  one  of  the  great  giants,  and  sit 
me  down  and  persuade  myself  that  all  the 
Aztec  kings  have  been  wont  to  rest  their 
bones  thereon.  From  where  I lounge,  I 
can  see  away  up  among  the  top  branches 


On  the  Paseo 


\2$ 


the  castle  and  buildings  of  the  military 
school,  and  at  intervals  hear  the  bugle 
sounding  the  afternoon’s  drill.  Later  I 
toil  up  the  steep  ascent,  and  from  the 
edge  of  the  stone  parapet  skirting  the 
bluff,  drink  in  the  glory  and  beauty  of 
perhaps  the  finest  landscape  in  the  world. 

There  are  two  views  which  always  rise 
up  in  my  memory  when  a grand  pano- 
ramic vision  bursts  upon  me  suddenly. 
One  is  from  a spot  in  the  Sierra  Nevada 
Mountains,  in  Granada,  called  “ La  Ultima 
Suspira  de  Mores.”  It  is  where  Boabdil 
stood  and  wejDt  when  he  looked  for  the 
last  time  over  the  beautiful  valley  of  the 
Vega, — the  loveliest  garden  in  Spain, — 
the  red  towers  and  terraces  of  the  Al- 
hambra bathed  in  the  setting  sun.  1 he 
other  is  this  great  sweep  of  plain,  and  dis- 
tant mountain  range,  with  all  its  wealth  of 
palm,  orange,  and  olive ; the  snow-capped 
twin  peaks  dominating  the  horizon  ; the 
silver  line  of  the  distant  lakes,  and  the 
fair  city,  the  Tenochtitlan  of  the  ancient, 
the  Eldorado  of  Cortez,  sparkling  like  a 
jewel  in  the  midst  of  this  vast  stretch  of 
green  and  gold. 


126  A White  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


Both  monarchs  wept  over  their  domin- 
ions. Boabdil,  that  the  power  of  his  race 
which  for  six  hundred  years  had  ruled 
Spain  was  broken,  and  that  the  light  of 
the  Crescent  had  paled  forever  in  the  ef- 
fulgence of  the  rising  Cross.  Montezuma, 
that  the  fires  of  his  temples  had  forever 
gone  out,  and  that  henceforward  his  peo- 
ple were  slaves. 

Sitting  here  alone  on  this  stone  parapet, 
watching  the  fading  sunlight  and  the  long 
creeping  shadows  and  comparing  Mexico 
and  Spain  of  to-day  with  what  we  know 
to  be  true  of  the  Moors,  and  what  we 
hope  was  true  of  the  Aztecs,  and  being  in 
a reflective  frame  of  mind,  it  becomes  a 
question  with  me  whether  the  civilized 
world  ought  not  to  have  mingled  their 
tears  with  both  potentates.  The  delight- 
ful historian  sums  it  up  in  this  way  : — 

“ Spain  has  the  unenviable  credit  of 
having  destroyed  two  great  civilizations.” 

Full  of  these  reveries,  and  with  the 
question  undecided,  I retraced  my  steps 
past  the  boy  sentinels,  down  the  long  hill, 
through  the  gardens  and  cypresses,  and 
out  into  the  broad  road  skirting  the  great 


On  the  Paseo 


12J 


aqueduct  of  Bucareli.  There  I hailed  a 
cab,  and  whirled  into  the  city  brilliant 
with  lights,  and  so  home  to  my  lodgings 
overlooking  the  old  convent  garden. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 


PALM  SUNDAY  IN  PUEBLA  DE  LOS  AN- 
GELES. 

Some  one  hundred  miles  from  the  city 
of  Mexico,  and  within  twice  that  distance 
of  Vera  Cruz  and  the  sea,  and  some  seven 
thousand  feet  up  into  the  clear,  crisp  air, 
lies  the  city  of  Puebla.  The  streets  are 
broad  and  clean,  the  plazas  filled  with 
trees  and  rich  in  flowers,  the  markets  ex- 
ceptionally interesting.  Above  this  charm- 
ing city  tower,  like  huge  sentinels,  the  two 
great  volcanoes  Popocatapetl  and  Iztacci- 
huatl. 

The  legend  of  its  founding  is  quaint 
and  somewhat  characteristic  ; moreover, 
there  is  no  shadow  of  doubt  as  to  its 
truth. 


In  Puebla  de  los  Angeles  1 29 


The  good  Fray  Julian  Garces,  the  first 
consecrated  bishop  of  the  Catholic  Church 
in  Mexico,  conceived  the  most  praise- 
worthy plan  of  founding,  somewhere  be- 
tween the  coast  and  the  city  of  Mexico,  a 
haven  of  refuge  and  safe  resting-place  for 
weary  travellers.  Upon  one  eventful 
night,  when  his  mind  was  filled  with  this 
noble  resolve,  he  beheld  a lovely  plain, 
bounded  by  the  great  slope  of  the  volca- 
noes, watered  by  two  rivers,  and  dotted 
by  many  ever-living  springs,  making  all 
things  fresh  and  green.  As  he  gazed,  his 
eyes  beheld  two  angels  with  line  and  rod, 
measuring  bounds  and  distances  upon  the 
ground.  After  seeing  the  vision,  the 
bishop  awoke,  and  that  very  hour  set  out 
to  search  for  the  site  the  angels  had 
shown  him ; upon  finding  which  he  joy- 
ously exclaimed,  “This  is  the  site  the 
Lord  has  chosen  through  his  holy  angels, 
and  here  shall  the  city  be;”  and  even 
now  the  most  charming  and  delightful  of 
all  the  cities  on  the  southern  slope  is  this 
Puebla  de  los  Angeles.  Nothing  has  oc- 
curred since  to  shake  confidence  in  the 
wisdom  of  the  good  bishop,  nor  impair  the 


i jo  A White  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


value  of  his  undertaking,  and  to-day  the 
idler,  the  antiquary,  and  the  artist  rise  up 
and  call  him  blessed. 

But  the  pious  bishop  did  not  stop  here. 

As  early  as  1536 
he  laid  the  cor- 
ner-stone of  the 
present  cathe- 
dral, completed 
one  hundred 
and  fifty  years 
later.  This  no- 
ble edifice,  in  its 
interior  adorn- 
ments,  lofty 
nave,  broad 
aisles  divided  by 
massive  stone 
columns,  inlaid 
floor  of  colored 
marble,  altars, 
chapels,  and 
choirs,  as  well  as  in  its  grand  exterior, 
raised  upon  a terrace  and  surmounted  by 
majestic  towers,  is  by  far  the  most  stately 
and  beautiful  of  all  the  great  buildings  of 
Mexico. 


In  Puebla  de  Los  Angeles  131 

Before  I reached  the  huge  swinging 
doors,  carved  and  heavily  ironed,  I knew 
it  was  Palm  Sunday  ; for  the  streets  weie 
filled  with  people,  each  one  carrying  a 
long  thin  leaf  of  the  sago  palm,  and  the 
balconies  with  children  twisting  the  sa- 
cred leaves  over  the  iron  railings,  to  mark 
a blessing  for  the  house  until  the  next 
festival. 

I had  crossed  the  plaza,  where  I had 
been  loitering  under  the  trees,  making 
memoranda  in  my  sketch-book  of  the 
groups  of  Indians  lounging  on  the  benches 
in  the  shade,  and  sketching  the  outlines 
of  bunches  of  little  donkeys  dozing  in  the 
sun ; and,  mounting  the  raised  terrace 
upon  w'hich  the  noble  pile  is  built,  found 
myself  in  the  cool,  incense-laden  interior. 
The  aisles  were  a moving  mass  of  people 
waving  palms  over  their  heads,  the  vista 
looking  like  great  fields  of  ferns  in  the 
wind.  The  service  was  still  in  progress, 
and  the  distant  bursts  of  the  organ  re- 
sounded at  intervals  through  the  arches. 

I wedged  my  way  between  the  throngs 
of  worshippers,  — some  kneeling,  some 
shuffling  along,  keeping  step  with  the 


r j2  A White  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


crowd, — past  the  inlaid  stalls,  exquisite 
carvings,  and  gilded  figures  of  saints,  until 
I reached  the  door  of  the  sacristy.  I al- 
ways search  out  the  sacristy.  It  contains 
the  movable  property  of  the  church,  and 
as  1 have  a passion  for  moving  it,  — when 
the  sacristan  is  of  the  same  mind,  — I 
always  find  it  the  most  attractive  corner 
of  any  sacred  interior. 

The  room  was  superb.  The  walls 
were  covered  with  paintings  set  in  gilded 
frames ; the  chests  of  drawers  were 
crammed  with  costly  vestments ; two  ex- 
quisite tables  covered  with  slabs  of  onyx 
stood  on  one  side,  while  upon  a raised 
shelf  above  them  were  ranged  eight  su- 
perb Japanese  Imari  jars,  — for  water,  I 
presumed. 

When  I entered,  a line  of  students 
near  the  door  were  being  robed  in  white 
starched  garments  by  the  sacristan  ; groups 
of  priests,  in  twos  and  threes,  some  in 
vestments,  others  in  street  robes,  were 
chatting  together  on  an  old  settle  ; and 
an  aged,  white-haired  bishop  was  listen- 
ing intently  to  a young  priest  dressed  in  a 
dark  purple  gown,  — both  outlined  against 


In  Puebla  de  los  Angeles  133 


an  open  window.  The  whole  effect  re- 
minded me  of  one  of  Vibert’s  pictures.  I 
was  so  absorbed  that  I remained  motion- 
less in  the  middle  of  the  room,  gazing 
awkwardly  about.  The  next  moment  the 
light  was  shut  out,  and  I half  smothered 
in  the  folds  of  a muslin  skirt.  I had  been 
mistaken  for  a student  chorister,  and  the 
sacristan  would  have  slipped  the  garment 
over  my  head  but  for  my  breathless  pro- 
test. Had  I known  the  service,  I think  I 
should  have  risked  the  consequences. 

The  sacristy  opened  into  the  chapter- 
room.  The  wanderer  who  thinks  he  must 
go  to  Italy  to  find  grand  interiors  should 
stand  at  the  threshold  of  this  room  and 
look  in;  or,  still  better,  rest  his  weary 
bones  for  half  an  hour  within  the  perfectly 
proportioned,  vaulted,  and  domed  apai  t- 
ment,  hung  with  Flemish  tapestry  and 
covered  with  paintings,  and  examine  it  at 
his  leisure.  He  can  select  any  one  of  the 
superb  old  Spanish  chairs  presented  by 
Charles  V.,  thirty-two  of  which  line  the 
walls  ; then,  being  rested,  he  can  step  into 
the  middle  of  the  room,  and  feast  his  eyes 
upon  a single  slab  of  Mexican  onyx  cover- 


i 34  ^ White  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


ing  a table  large  enough  for  a grand  coun- 
cil of  bishops.  I confess  I stood  for  an 
instant  amazed,  wondering  whether  I was 
really  in  Mexico,  across  its  thousand  miles 
of  dust,  or  had  wandered  into  some  old 
palace  or  church  in  Verona  or  Padua. 

At  the  far  end  of  this  chapter-room  sat 
a grave-looking  priest,  absorbed  in  his 
breviary.  I approached  him,  hat  in  hand. 

“ Holy  father,  I am  a stranger  and  a 
painter.  I know  the  service  is  in  progress, 
and  that  I should  not  now  intrude  ; but 
this  room  is  so  beautiful,  and  my  stay  in 
Puebla  so  short,  that  I must  crave  your 
permission  to  enter.” 

He  laid  down  his  book.  “ Mi  amigo , 
you  are  welcome.  Wander  about  where 
you  will,  here  and  by  the  altar.  You  will 
disturb  no  one.  You  painters  always  re- 
vere the  church,  for  within  its  walls  your 
greatest  works  are  held  sacred.” 

I thought  that  very  neat  for  a priest 
just  awakened  from  a reverie,  and,  thank- 
ing him,  examined  greedily  the  superb  old 
carved  chair  he  had  just  vacated.  I did 
revere  the  church,  and  told  him  so,  but 
all  the  same  I coveted  the  chair,  and  but 


In  Puebla  de  los  Angeles  / 35 


for  his  compliment  and  devout  air  would 
have  dared  to  open  negotiations  for  its 
possession.  I reasoned,  iconoclast  that  I 
am,  that  it  would  hardly  be  missed  among 
its  fellows,  and  that  perhaps  one  of  those 
frightful  renovations,  constantly  taking 
place  in  Mexican  churches,  might  over- 
take this  beautiful  room,  when  new  ma- 
hogany horrors  might  replace  these  ex- 
quisite relics  of  the  sixteenth  century,  and 
the  whole  set  be  claimed  by  the  second- 
hand man  or  the  wood  pile. 

Then  I strolled  out  into  the  church 
with  that  vacant  air  which  always  marks 
one  in  a building  new  to  him,  especially 
when  it  overwhelms  him,  — gazing  up  at 
the  nave,  reading  the  inscriptions  under 
the  pictures,  and  idling  about  the  aisles. 
Soon  I came  to  a confessional  box.  1 here 
I sat  down  behind  a protecting  column. 

There  is  a fascination  about  the  con- 
fessional which  I can  never  escape.  Here 
sits  the  old  news-gatherer  and  safe-deposit 
vault  of  everybody’s  valuable  secrets, 
peaceful  and  calm  within  the  seclusion  of 
his  grated  cabinet ; and  here  come  a 
troop  of  people,  telling  him  all  the  good 


/ $6  A White  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


and  bad  things  of  their  lives,  and  leaving 
with  him  for  safe-keeping  their  most  pre- 
cious property,  — their  misdeeds.  What 
a collection  of  broken  bonds,  dishonored 
names,  and  debts  of  ingratitude  must  he 
be  custodian  of ! 

The  good  father  before  me  was  a kindly 
faced,  plethoric  old  man  ; a little  deaf,  I 
should  judge,  from  the  fanning  motion  of 
his  left  hand,  forming  a sounding-board 
for  his  ear.  About  him  were  a group  of 
penitents,  patiently  awaiting  their  turns. 
When  I halted  and  sought  the  shelter  of 
the  pillar,  the  closely  veiled  and  muffled 
figure  of  a richly  dressed  senora  was  bowed 
before  him.  She  remained  a few  moments, 
and  then  slipped  away,  and  another  figure 
took  her  place  at  the  grating. 

I raised  my  eyes  wistfully,  wondering 
whether  I could  read  the  old  fellow's  face, 
which  was  in  strong  light,  sufficiently  well 
to  get  some  sort  of  an  inkling  of  her  con- 
fidences ; but  no  cloud  of  sorrow,  or  ruffle 
of  anger,  or  gleam  of  curiosity  passed 
over  it.  It  was  as  expressionless  as  a 
harvest  moon,  and  placid  as  a mountain 
lake.  At  times  I even  fancied  he  was 


In  Puebla  de  los  Angeles 


137 


asleep;  then  his  little  eyes  would  open 
slowly  and  peep  out  keenly,  and  I knew 
he  had  only  been  assorting  and  digesting 
his  several  informations. 

One  after  another  they  dropped  away 
silently,  — the  Indian  in  his  zarape,  the 
old  man  in  sandals,  and  the  sad -faced 
woman  with  a black  rebozo  twisted  about 
her  throat.  Each  had  prostrated  himself, 
and  poured  through  that  six  inches  of 
space  the  woes  that  weighed  heavy  on  his 
soul.  The  good  father  listened  to  them 
all.  His  patience  and  equanimity  seemed 
marvellous. 

I became  so  engrossed  that  I forgot  I 
was  an  eavesdropper,  and  could  make  no 
sort  of  excuse  for  my  vulgar  curiosity 
which  would  satisfy  any  one  upon  whose 
privacy  I intruded  ; and,  coming  to  this 
conclusion,  was  about  to  shoulder  my  trap 
and  move  off,  when  I caught  sight  of  a 
short,  thick-set  young  Mexican,  muffled 
to  his  chin  in  a zarape.  He  was  leaning 
against  the  opposite  column,  watching 
earnestly  the  same  confessional  box,  his 
black,  bead  - like  eyes  riveted  upon  the 
priest.  In  his  hand  he  held  a small  red 


/ A White  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


cap,  with  which  he  partially  concealed  his 
face.  It  was  not  prepossessing,  the  fore- 
head being  low  and  receding,  and  the 
mouth  firm  and  cruel. 

As  each  penitent  turned  away,  the  man 
edged  nearer  to  the  priest,  with  a move- 
ment that  attracted  me.  It  was  like  that 
of  an  animal  slowly  yielding  to  the  power 
of  a snake.  He  was  now  so  close  that 
I could  see  great  drops  of  sweat  run- 
ning down  his  temples ; his  breath  came 
thick  and  short ; his  whole  form,  sturdy 
fellow  as  he  was,  trembled  and  shook. 
The  cap  was  now  clenched  in  his  fist  and 
pressed  to  his  breast,  — the  eyes  still  fas- 
tened on  the  priest,  and  the  feet  moving  a 
few  inches  at  a time.  When  the  last  pen- 
itent had  laid  her  face  against  the  grating, 
he  fell  upon  his  knees  behind  her,  and 
buried  his  face  in  his  hands.  When  she 
was  gone,  he  threw  himself  forward  in  her 
place,  and  clutched  the  grating  with  a 
moan  that  startled  me. 

I arose  from  my  seat,  edged  around  the 
pillar,  and  got  the  light  more  clearly  on 
the  priest’s  face.  It  was  as  calm  and  se- 
rene as  a wooden  saint’s. 


hi  Puebla  de  los  Angeles  1 39 


For  a few  moments  the  Mexican  lay  in 
a heap  at  the  grating  ; then  he  raised  his 
head,  and  looked  cautiously  about  him. 

I shrank  into  the  shadow.  The  face  was 
ghastly  pale,  the  lips  trembled,  the  eyes 
started  from  his  head.  The  priest  leaned 
forward  wearily,  his  ear  to  the  iron  lat- 
tice. The  man’s  lips  began  to  move  ; the 
confession  had  begun.  Both  figures  re- 
mained motionless,  the  man  whispering 
eagerly,  and  the  priest  listening  patiently. 
Suddenly  the  good  father  started  forward, 
bent  down,  and  scanned  the  man’s  face 
searchingly  through  the  grating.  In  an- 
other instant  he  uttered  a half-smothered 
cry  of  horror,  covered  his  face  with  the 
sleeve  of  his  robe,  and  fell  back  on  his 
seat. 

The  man  edged  around  on  his  knees 
from  the  side  grating  to  the  front  of  the 
confessional,  and  bowed  his  head  to  the 
lower  step  of  the  box.  For  several  min- 
utes neither  moved.  I flattened  myself 
against  the  column,  and  became  a part  of 
the  architecture.  Then  the  priest,  with 
blanched  face,  leaned  forward  over  the 
half  door,  and  laid  his  hand  on  the  peni- 


140  A White  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


tent.  The  man  raised  his  head,  clutched 
the  top  of  the  half  door,  bent  forward, 
and  glued  his  lips  to  the  priest’s  ear.  I 
reached  down  noiselessly  for  my  sketch- 
trap,  peeled  myself  from  the  column  as 
one  would  a wet  handbill,  and,  keeping 
the  pillar  between  me  and  the  confes- 
sional, made  a straight  line  for  the  sac- 
risty. 

Before  I reached  the  door  the  priest 
overtook  me,  crossed  the  room,  and  dis- 
appeared through  a smaller  door  in  the 
opposite  wall.  I turned  to  avoid  him,  and 
caught  sight  of  the  red  cap  of  the  Mexican 
pressing  his  way  hurriedly  to  the  street. 
Waiting  until  he  was  lost  in  the  throng,  I 
drew  a long  breath,  and  dropped  upon  a 
bench. 

The  faces  of  both  man  and  priest 
haunted  me.  I had  evidently  been  the  un- 
suspected witness  of  one  of  those  strange 
confidences  existing  in  Catholic  countries 
between  the  criminal  and  the  Church.  I 
had  also  been  in  extreme  personal  danger. 
A crime  so  terrible  that  the  bare  recital 
of  it  shocked  to  demoralization  so  unim- 
pressionable a priest  as  the  good  father 


In  Puebla  de  los  Angeles  141 


was  safe  in  his  ear  alone.  Had  there 
been  a faint  suspicion  in  the  man’s  mind 
that  I had  overheard  any  part  of  his 
story,  my  position  would  have  been  dan- 
gerous. 

But  what  could  have  been  the  crime  ? 
I reflected  that  even  an  inquiry  looking 
towards  its  solution  would  be  equally 
hazardous,  and  so  tried  to  banish  the  in- 
cident from  my  mind. 

A jar  upon  the  other  end  of  the  bench 
awoke  me  from  my  reverie.  A pale, 
neatly  dressed,  sad-looking  young  fellow 
had  just  sat  down.  He  apologized  for 
disturbing  me,  and  the  courtesy  led  to  his 
moving  up  to  my  end. 

“ English  ? ” 

“ No,  from  New  York.” 

“What  do  you  sell  ? ” 

“ Nothing.  I paint.  This  trap  con- 
tains my  canvas  and  colors.  What  do 
you  do  ? ” I asked. 

“ I am  a clerk  in  the  Department  of 
Justice.  The  office  is  closed  to-day,  and 
I have  come  into  the  church  out  of  the 
heat,  because  it  is  cool.” 

I sounded  him  carefully,  was  convinced 


142  A White  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


of  his  honesty,  and  related  the  incident 
of  the  confessional.  He  was  not  sur- 
prised. On  the  contrary,  he  recounted  to 
me  many  similar  instances  in  his  own  ex- 
perience, explaining  that  it  is  quite  nat- 
ural for  a man  haunted  by  a crime  to 
seek  the  quiet  of  a church,  and  that  often 
the  relief  afforded  by  the  confessional 
wrings  from  him  his  secret.  No  doubt 
my  case  was  one  of  these. 

“ And  is  the  murderer  safe  ? ” 

“ From  the  priest,  yes.  The  police 
agents,  however,  always  watch  the 
churches.” 

While  we  were  speaking  an  officer 
passed,  bowed  to  my  companion,  retraced 
his  steps,  and  said,  “ There  has  been  an 
important  arrest.  You  may  perhaps  be 
wanted.” 

I touched  the  speaker’s  arm.  “ Par- 
don me.  Was  it  made  near  the  cathe- 
dral ? ” 

“Yes  ; outside  the  great  door.” 

“ What  was  the  color  of  his  cap  ? ” 

He  turned  sharply,  looked  at  me  search- 
ingly,  and  said,  lowering  his  voice,  — 

“ Red,” 


In  Puebla  de  los  Angeles  143 


A few  days  later  I wandered  into  the 
market-place,  in  search  of  a subject.  My 
difficulty  was  simply  one  of  selection.  I 
could  have  opened  my  easel  at  random 
and  made  half  a dozen  sketches  without 
leaving  my  stool ; but  where  there  is  so 
much  wealth  of  material  one  is  apt  to  be 
over-critical,  and,  being  anxious  to  pick 
out  the  best,  often  loses  the  esprit  of  the 
first  impression,  and  so  goes  away  without 
a line.  It  was  not  the  fault  of  the  day  or 
the  market.  The  sun  was  brilliant  beyond 
belief,  the  sky  superb;  the  open  square 
of  the  older  section  was  filled  with  tumble- 
down  bungalow  - like  sheds,  hung  with 
screens  of  patched  matting  ; the  side- 
walks were  fringed  with  giant  thatched 
umbrellas,  picturesque  in  the  extreme  ; 
the  costumes  were  rich  and  varied : all 
this  and  more,  and  yet  I was  not  satis- 
fied. Outside  the  slanting  roofs,  heaped 
up  on  the  pavement,  lay  piles  of  green 
vegetables,  pottery,  and  fruit,  glistening 
in  the  dazzling  light.  Inside  the  booths 
hung  festoons  of  bright  stuffs,  rebozos 
and  panuelos,  gray  and  cool  by  contrast. 
Thronging  crowds  of  natives  streamed  in 


144  -d  IVbite  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


and  out  the  sheds,  blocked  up  narrow 
passageways,  grouped  in  the  open,  and 
disappeared  into  the  black  shadows  of  an 
inviting  archway,  beyond  which  an  even 
crisper  sunlight  glowed  in  dabs,  spots, 
and  splashes  of  luxuriant  color. 


There  was  everything,  in  fact,  to  intox- 
icate a man  in  search  of  the  picturesque, 
and  yet  I idled  along  without  opening  my 
sketch-book,  and  for  more  than  an  hour 
lugged  my  trap  about : deciding  on  a group 
under  the  edge  of  the  archway,  with  a 
glimpse  of  blue  in  the  sky  and  the  towers 
of  the  church  beyond  ■ abandoning  that 
instantly  for  a long  stretch  of  street  lead- 


In  Puebla  de  los  Angeles  145 


ing  out  of  a square  dotted  with  donkeys 
waiting  to  be  unloaded  ; and  concluding, 
finally,  to  paint  some  high-wheeled  carts, 
only  to  relinquish  them  all  for  something 
else. 

I continued,  I say,  to  waste  thus  fool- 
ishly my  precious  time,  until,  dazed  and 
worn  out,  I turned  on  my  heel,  hailed  a 
cab,  and  drove  to  the  old  Paseo.  there 
I entered  the  little  plazuela , embowered 
in  trees,  sat  down  opposite  the  delightful 
old  church  of  San  Francisco,  and  was  at 
work  in  five  minutes.  When  one  is  daz- 
zled by  a sunset,  let  him  shut  his  eyes. 
After  the  blaze  of  a Mexican  market,  try 
the  quiet  grays  of  a seventeenth-century 
church,  seen  through  soft  foliage  and 
across  cool,  shady  walks. 

This  church  of  San  Francisco  is  another 
of  the  delightful  old  churches  of  Puebla. 
I regret  that  the  fiend  with  the  bucket  and 
the  flat  brush  has  practically  destroyed  al- 
most the  whole  interior  except  the  choir, 
which  is  still  exquisite  with  its  finely 
carved  wooden  stalls  and  rich  organ, 
but  I rejoice  that  the  outside,  with  its 
quaint  altar  fronting  on  the  plazuela  fa- 


146  A White  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


c^ade  of  dark  brick  ornamented  with  pan- 
els of  Spanish  tiles,  stone  carvings,  stat- 
ues, and  lofty  towers,  is  still  untouched, 
and  hence  beautiful. 

Adjoining  the  church  is  a military  hos- 
pital and  barracks,  formerly  an  old  con- 
vent. I was  so  wholly  wrapped  up  in  my 
work  that  my  water-cup  needed  refilling 
before  I looked  up  and  about  me.  To 
my  surprise,  I was  nearly  surrounded  by 
a squad  of  soldiers  and  half  a dozen  offi- 
cers. One  fine-looking  old  fellow,  with 
gray  moustache  and  pointed  beard,  stood 
so  close  that  my  elbow  struck  his  knee 
when  I arose. 

The  first  thought  that  ran  through  my 
head  was  my  experience  of  Sunday,  and 
my  unpardonable  imprudence  in  impart- 
ing my  discoveries  of  the  confessional  to 
the  sad-faced  young  man  on  the  bench. 
Tracked,  of  course,  I concluded,  — ar- 
rested in  the  streets,  and  held  as  a wit- 
ness on  bread  and  pulque  for  a week. 
No  passport,  and  an  alibi  out  of  the  ques- 
tion ! A second  glance  reassured  me. 
The  possessor  of  the  pointed  beard  only 
smiled  cordially,  apologized,  and  seated 


In  Puebla  de  los  Angeles  147 


himself  on  the  bench  at  my  right.  His 
intentions  were  the  most  peaceful.  It 
was  the  growing  picture  that  absorbed 
him  and  his  fellow-officers  and  men.  They 
had  merely  deployed  noiselessly  in  my 
rear,  to  find  out  what  the  deuce  the 
stranger  was  doing  under  that  white  um- 
brella. Only  this,  and  nothing  more. 

I was  not  even  permitted  to  fill  my 
water-bottle.  A sign  from  my  friend,  and 
a soldier,  with  his  arm  in  a sling,  ran 
to  the  fountain,  returned  in  a flash,  and 
passed  the  bottle  back  to  me  with  so  rev- 
erential an  air  that  but  for  the  deep  ear- 
nestness of  his  manner  I should  have 
laughed  aloud.  He  seemed  to  regard  the 
water-bottle  as  the  home  of  the  witch  that 
worked  the  spell. 

After  that  the  circle  was  narrowed,  and 
my  open  cigarette-case  added  a touch  of 
good  fellowship,  everybody  becoming  quite 
cozy  and  sociable.  The  officer  was  in 
command  of  the  barracks.  His  brother 
officers  — one  after  another  was  intro- 
duced with  much  form  and  manner  — 
were  on  duty  at  the  hospital  except  one, 
who  was  in  command  of  the  department  of 


148  A White  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


police  of  the  city.  A slight  chill  ran  down 
my  spine,  but  I returned  the  command- 
ant’s bow  with  a smile  that  established 
at  once  the  absolute  purity  of  my  life. 

For  two  hours,  in  the  cool  of  the  morn- 
ing, under  the  trees  of  the  little  plazucla, 
this  charming  episode  continued ; I paint- 
ing, the  others  around  me  deeply  inter- 
ested ; all  smoking,  and  chatting  in  the 
friendliest  possible  way.  At  the  sound  of 
a bugle  the  men  dropped  away,  and  soon 
after  all  the  officers  bowed  and  disap- 
peared, except  my  friend  with  the  pointed 
beard  and  the  commandant  of  the  police. 
These  two  moved  their  bench  nearer,  and 
sat  down,  determined  to  watch  the  sketch 
to  the  end. 

The  conversation  drifted  into  different 
channels.  The  system  of  policing  the 
streets  at  night  was  explained  to  me,  the 
manner  of  arrest,  the  absolute  authority 
given  to  the  jefe  politico  in  the  rural  dis- 
tricts, — an  execution  first,  and  an  inves- 
tigation afterwards,  — the  necessity  for 
such  prompt  action  in  a country  abound- 
ing in  bandits,  the  success  of  the  govern- 
ment in  suppressing  the  evil,  etc. 


In  Puebla  de  los  Angeles  149 


“ And  are  the  crimes  confined  wholly  to 
the  country  districts  ? ” I asked.  “ Are 
your  cities  safe  ? ” 

“ Generally,  yes.  Occasionally  there  is 
a murder  among  the  lower  classes  of  the 
people.  It  is  not  always  for  booty  ; re- 
venge for  some  real  or  fancied  injury 
often  prompts  it.” 

“ Has  there  been  any  particularly  bru- 
tal crime  committed  here  lately  ? ” I asked 
carelessly,  skirting  the  edge  of  my  preci- 
pice. 

“ Not  exactly  here.  There  was  one  at 
Atlixco,  a small  town  a few  miles  west  of 
here,  but  the  man  escaped.” 

“ Have  you  captured  him  ? ” 

“ Not  yet.  There  was  a man  arrested 
here  a few  days  ago,  who  is  now  await- 
ing examination.  It  may  be  that  we  have 
the  right  one.  We  shall  know  to-mor- 
row.” 

I kept  at  work,  dabbing  away  at  the 
mass  of  foliage,  and  putting  in  pats  of 
shadow  tones. 

“ Was  it  the  man  arrested  near  the  ca- 
thedral on  Palm  Sunday  ? ” 

“There  was  a man  arrested  on  Palm 


i^o  A White  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


Sunday,”  he  replied  slowly,  “ How  did 
you  know  ? ” 

I looked  up,  and  found  his  eyes  riveted 
on  me  in  a peculiar,  penetrating  way. 

“ I heard  it  spoken  of  in  the  church,” 
I replied,  catching  my  breath.  My  foot 
went  over  the  precipice.  I could  see  into 
the  pit  below. 

“ If  the  American  heard  of  it,”  said  he 
in  a low  voice,  turning  to  my  friend,  “ it 
was  badly  done.” 

I filled  a fresh  brush  with  color,  leaned 
over  my  canvas,  and  before  I looked  up  a 
second  time  had  regained  my  feet  and 
crawled  back  to  a safe  spot.  — I could 
hear  the  stones  go  rumbling  down  into 
the  abyss  beneath  me.  Then  I concen- 
trated myself  upon  the  details  of  the  fa- 
cade, and  the  officer  began  explaining  the 
early  history  of  the  founding  of  the  church, 
and  the  many  vicissitudes  it  had  experi- 
enced in  the  great  battles  which  had  raged 
around  its  towers.  By  the  time  he  had  fin- 
ished the  cold  look  went  out  of  his  eyes. 

The  sketch  was  completed,  the  trap 
bundled  up,  three  hats  were  raised,  and 
we  separated. 


In  Puebla  de  los  Angeles  151 


I thought  of  the  horror-stricken  face  of 
the  priest  and  the  crouching  figure  of  the 
Mexican ; then  I thought  of  that  pene- 
trating, steel-like  glance  of  the  command- 
ant. 

So  far  as  I know  the  priest  alone  shares 
the  secret. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

A DAY  IN  TOLUCA. 

Hitherto  my  travels,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  a divergence  to  Puebla,  have  been 
in  a straight  line  south,  beginning  at  the 
frontier  town  of  El  Paso,  stopping  at  Za- 
cate'cas,  Aguas  Calientes,  Silao,  Guana- 
juato, and  Queretaro,  — all  important  cities 
on  the  line  of  the  Mexican  Central  Rail- 
road, — and  ending  at  the  city  of  Mexico, 
some  twelve  hundred  miles  nearer  the 
equator. 

It  is  true  that  I have  made  a flying  trip 
over  the  Mexican  Railway,  passing  under 
the  shadow  of  snow-capped  Orizaba,  have 


A Day  in  Toluca 


‘53 


looked  down  into  the  deep  gorges  of  the 
Infiernillo  reeking  with  the  hot  humid  air 
of  the  tropics,  and  have  spent  one  night 
in  the  fever-haunted  city  of  Vera  Cruz; 
but  my  experiences  were  confined  to  such 
as  could  be  enjoyed  from  the  rear  platform 
of  a car,  to  a six  by  nine  room  in  a stuffy 
hotel,  and  to  a glimpse  at  night  of  the  sea, 
impelled  by  a norther,  rolling  in  from  the 
Gulf  and  sousing  the  quay  incumbered 
with  surf  boats.  Had  I been  a bird  belated 
in  the  autumn,  I could  have  seen  more. 

This  bright  April  morning  I have 
shaken  the  dust  of  the  great  city  from  my 
feet,  and  have  bent  my  steps  westward  to- 
wards the  Pacific.  In  common  parlance, 
I have  bought  a first-class  ticket  for  as 
far  as  the  national  railroad  will  take  me, 
and  shall  come  bump  up  against  the  pres- 
ent terminus  at  Patzcuaro. 

On  my  way  west  I shall  stop  at  Toluca, 
an  important  city  some  fifty  miles  down 
the  road,  tarry  a while  at  Morelia,  the  most 
delightful  of  all  the  cities  of  western  Mex- 
ico, and  come  to  a halt  at  Patzcuaro.  In 
all  some  three  hundred  miles  from  where 
I sit  in  the  station  and  look  out  my  car 


1 54  ^ White  Umbrella  in  Mexico. 


window.  I am  particular  about  these 
distances. 

At  Patzcuaro  I shall  find  a lake  bear- 
ing the  same  name.  Up  this  lake,  nearly 
to  the  end,  an  Indian  adobe  village,  at  the 
end  of  the  village  a tumbling-down  church 
and  convent,  within  this  convent  a clois- 
ter, leading  out  of  the  cloister  a narrow 
passage  ending  in  a low-ceiled  room  with 
its  one  window  protected  by  an  iron 
grating.  Through  this  fretwork  of  rusty 
iron  the  light  streams  in,  falling,  I am 
told,  upon  one  of  the  priceless  treasures 
of  the  world  — an  Entombment  by  Titian. 

This,  if  you  please,  is  why  my  course 
points  due  west. 

The  scenery  along  the  line  of  the  road 
from  the  City  of  Mexico  to  where  the  di- 
vide is  crossed  at  la  Cima  — some  ten 
thousand  feet  above  the  level  of  the  sea, 
and  thence  down  into  the  Toluca  valley  — 
was  so  inexpressibly  grand  that  I was 
half  the  time  in  imminent  danger  of  deco- 
rating a telegraph  pole  with  my  head,  in 
my  eagerness  to  enjoy  it. 

Great  masonry  dams  hold  back  lakes 


A Day  in  Toluca  155 

of  silver  shimmering  in  the  sunlight ; deep 
gorges  lie  bottomless  in  purple  shadows ; 
wide  stretches  of  table-land  end  in  vol- 
canoes ragged,  dead,  and  creviced  with 


snow  ; and  sharp  craggy  peaks,  tumbling 
waterfalls,  and  dense  semi-tropical  jun- 
gles start  up  and  out  and  from  under  me 
at  every  curve. 

On  reaching  the  valley  of  Toluca,  the 
road  as  it  nears  the  red-tiled  roofs  of  the 
city  follows  the  windings  of  the  river  Ler- 
ma,  its  banks  fringed  with  natives  bath- 
ing. On  reaching  the  city  itself  the  clean, 


1 56  A White  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


well-dressed  throng  at  the  depot  explains 
at  a glance  the  value  of  this  stream  apart 
from  its  irrigating  properties. 

And  the  city  is  clean,  with  a certain 
well-planned,  well-built,  and  orderly  air 
about  it,  and  quite  a modern  air  too. 
Remembering  a fine  gray  dust  which 
seems  to  be  a part  of  the  very  air  one 
breathes,  and  the  great  stretches  of  gar- 
dens filled  with  trees,  and  the  long  drought 
continuing  for  months,  I should  say  that 
the  prevailing  color  of  Toluca’s  vegeta- 
tion is  a light  mullein-stalk  green.  Then 
the  houses  are  a dusty  pink,  the  roofs  a 
dusty  red,  and  the  streets  and  sidewalks  a 
dusty  yellow,  and  the  sky  always  and  ever, 
from  morn  till  night,  a dusty  blue.  It  is 
the  kind  of  a place  Cazin,  the  great 
French  impressionist,  would  revel  in.  So 
subtle  and  exquisite  are  the  grays  and 
their  harmonies  that  one  false  note  from 
your  palette  sets  your  teeth  on  edge. 

But  Toluca  is  not  by  any  means  a mod- 
ern city,  despite  its  apparent  newness,  its 
air  of  prosperity,  and  its  generally  brushed- 
up  appearance.  It  is  one  of  the  oldest  of 
the  Spanish  settlements.  No  less  a per- 


A Day  in  Toluca  i 57 

sonage  than  the  great  Cortez  himself  re- 
ceived its  site,  and  a comfortable  slice  of 
the  surrounding  country  thrown  in,  as  a 
present,  from  his  king.  In  fact  it  is  but  a 
few  years,  not  twenty,  since  the  govern- 
ment pulled  down  the  very  house  once  oc- 
cupied by  the  conqueror’s  son,  Don  Mar- 
tin Cortez,  and  built  upon  its  site  the 
present  imposing  state  buildings  fronting 
the  plaza  major. 

This  pulling  down  and  rebuilding  proc- 
ess is  quite  fashionable  in  Toluca,  and  has 
extended  even  to  its  churches.  The  prim- 
itive church  of  San  Francisco  was  replaced 
by  a larger  structure  of  stone  in  1585,  and 
this  in  turn  by  an  important  building 
erected  in  the  seventeenth  century ; and 
yet  these  restless  people,  as  if  cramped 
for  room,  levelled  this  edifice  to  the  ground 
in  1874  and  started  upon  its  ruins  what 
purposes  to  be  a magnificent  temple,  judg- 
ing from  the  acres  it  covers.  In  fourteen 
years  it  has  grown  twelve  feet  high.  Some 
time  during  the  latter  part  of  the  next 
century  they  will  be  slating  the  roof. 

Then  there  are  delightful  markets,  and  a 
fine  bull-ring,  and  in  the  suburbs  a pretty 


1^8  A White  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


alameda  full  of  matted  vines  and  over- 
grown walks,  besides  two  gorgeous  thea- 
tres. Altogether  Toluca  is  quite  worth 
dusting  off  to  see,  even  if  it  does  not  look 
as  old  as  the  Pyramids  or  as  dilapidated 
as  an  Arab  town. 

In  all  this  newness  there  is  one  spot 
which  refreshes  you  like  a breeze  from 
afar.  It  is  the  little  chapel  of  Nuestra 
Sehora  del  Carmen,  laden  with  the  quaint- 
ness, the  charm,  and  the  dust  of  the  six- 
teenth century.  It  has  apparently  never 
yet  occurred  to  any  Tolucian  to  retouch 
it,  and  my  only  fear  in  calling  attention 
to  it  now  is,  that  during  the  next  annual 
spring-cleaning  the  man  with  the  bucket 
will  smother  its  charm  in  whitewash. 

It  was  high  noon  when  I sallied  out 
from  my  lodgings  to  look  for  this  forgot- 
ten relic  of  the  past.  I had  spent  the 
morning  with  that  ubiquitous  scapegrace 
Moon,  whom  I had  met  in  Zacatecas  some 
weeks  before  and  who  had  run  up  to  To- 
luca on  some  business  connected  with  the 
road.  He  nearly  shook  my  arm  off  when 
he  ran  against  me  in  the  market,  inquired 
after  the  chair,  vowed  I should  not  wet  a 


A Day  in  Toluca 


'59 


brush  until  I broke  bread  with  him,  and 
would  have  carried  me  off  bodily  to  break- 
fast had  I not  convinced  him  that  no  man 
could  eat  two  meals  half  an  hour  apart. 
He  was  delighted  that  I could  find  noth- 
ing, as  he  expressed  it,  “ rickety  ” enough 
to  paint  in  Toluca,  and  then  relenting  led 
me  up  to  a crack  in  a crooked  street, 
pointed  ahead  to  the  chapel,  and  deserted 
me  with  the  remark  : — 

“ Try  that.  It  is  as  musty  as  a cheese, 
and  about  a million  years  old.” 

I passed  through  a gate,  entered  the  sa- 
cred building,  and  wandered  out  into  a 
patio  or  sort  of  cloister.  Instantly  the 
world  and  its  hum  was  gone.  It  was  a 
small  cloister,  square,  paved  with  marble 
flags,  and  open  to  the  blue  sky  above.  Be- 
neath the  arches,  against  the  wall,  hung  a 
few  paintings,  old  and  weather-stained. 
Opposite  from  where  I stood  was  an  open 
door.  I crossed  the  quadrangle  and  en- 
tered a coxily  furnished  apartment.  The 
ceiling  was  low  and  heavily  beamed,  the 
floor  laid  in  brick  tiles,  and  the  walls 
faced  with  shelves  loaded  with  books 
bound  in  vellum  with  titles  labelled  in  ink. 


i6o  A White  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


Over  the  door  was  an  unframed  picture, 
evidently  a Murillo,  and  against  the  op- 
posite wall  hung  several  large  copies  of 
Ribera.  In  one  corner  under  a grated 
window  rested  an  iron  bedstead,  — but 
recently  occupied,  — and  near  it  an  arm- 
chair with  faded  velvet  cushions.  A low 
table  covered  with  books  and  manuscripts, 
together  with  a skull,  candle,  and  rosary, 
a copper  basin  and  pitcher,  and  a few 
chairs  completed  the  interior  comforts. 
Over  the  bed,  within  arm’s  reach,  hung 
a low  shelf  upon  which  stood  a small  glass 
cup  holding  a withered  rose.  The  cup  was 
dry  and  the  flower  faded  and  dust  covered. 

A second  and  smaller  room  opened  out 
to  the  left.  I pushed  aside  the  curtains 
and  looked  in.  It  was  unoccupied  like 
the  first.  As  1 turned  hurriedly  to  leave 
the  apartments  my  eye  fell  upon  a copy 
of  Medina’s  works  bound  in  vellum,  yel- 
low and  crinkled,  the  backs  tied  by  a 
leathern  string.  I leaned  forward  to  note 
the  date.  Suddenly  the  light  was  shut 
out,  and  from  the  obstructed  doorway 
came  a voice  quick  and  sharp. 

“ What  does  the  stranger  want  with  the 


A Day  in  Toluca 


161 


padre’s  books  ? ” I looked  up  and  saw  a 
man  holding  a bunch  of  keys.  The  situa- 
tion was  unpleasant.  Without  changing 
my  position,  I lifted  the  book  from  the 
shelf  and  carefully  read  the  title-page. 

“ Will  he  be  gone  long  ? ” I answered, 
slowly  replacing  the  volume. 

“You  are  waiting,  then,  for  Fray  Ge- 
ronimo  ? Many  pardons,  senor,  I am  the 
sacristan.  I will  find  the  padre  and  bring 
him  to  you.” 

I sank  into  the  armchair.  Retreat  now 
was  impossible.  This  will  do  for  the  sac- 
ristan I thought,  but  how  about  the  priest  ? 

In  a moment  more  I caught  the  sound 
of  quickening  footsteps  crossing  the  patio. 
By  the  side  of  the  sacristan  stood  a bare- 
headed young  priest,  dressed  in  a white 
robe  which  reached  to  his  feet.  He  had 
deep-set  eyes,  which  were  intensely  dark, 
and  a skin  of  ivory  whiteness.  With  a 
kindly  smile  upon  his  handsome  intellect- 
ual face,  he  came  forward  and  said  : — 

“ Do  you  want  me  ? ” 

I laid  my  course  in  an  instant. 

“ Yes,  holy  father,”  I replied,  rising,  “ to 
crave  your  forgiveness.  I am  an  Ameri- 


1 62  A White  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


can  and  a painter  ; see,  here  is  my  sketch- 
book. I entered  your  open  door,  believ- 
ing it  would  lead  me  to  the  street.  The 
Murillo,  the  Riberas,  the  wonderful  col- 
lection of  old  books,  more  precious  than 
any  I have  ever  seen  in  all  Mexico,  over- 
came me.  I love  these  things,  and  could 
not  resist  the  temptation  of  tarrying  long 
enough  to  feast  my  eyes.” 

“ Mi  amigo,  do  not  be  disturbed.  It  is 
all  right.  You  can  go,  Pedro,”  — this  to 
the  sacristan.  “ I love  them  too.  Let  us 
look  them  over  together.” 

For  more  than  an  hour  we  examined 
the  contents  of  the  curious  library.  Al- 
most without  an  exception  each  book  was 
a rare  volume.  There  were  rows  of  eccle- 
siastical works  in  Latin  with  red  lettered 
title-pages  printed  in  Antwerp.  Two 
editions  of  Don  Quixote  with  copper 
plates,  published  in  Madrid  in  1760,  be- 
sides a varied  collection  of  the  early  Mexi- 
can writers  including  Alarcon,  the  drama- 
tist, and  Gongora,  the  poet-philosopher. 

Then  in  the  same  gracious  manner  he 
mounted  a chair  and  took  from  the  wall 
the  unframed  Murillo,  “ A Flight  into 


A Day  in  Toluca  163 

Egypt,”  and  placed  it  in  the  light,  saying 
that  it  had  formerly  belonged  to  an  ances- 
tor and  not  to  the  church,  and  that  believ- 
ing it  to  be  the  genuine  work  of  the  great 
master,  he  had  brought  it  with  him  when 
he  came  to  Toluca,  the  face  of  the  Ma- 
donna being  especially  dear  to  him.  Next 
he  unlocked  a closet  and  brought  me  an 
ivory  crucifix  of  exquisite  workmanship, 
the  modelling  of  the  feet  and  hands  re- 
calling the  best  work  of  the  Italian  school. 
He  did  not  return  this  to  the  closet,  but 
placed  it  upon  the  little  shelf  over  his  bed 
close  to  the  dry  cup  which  held  the  with- 
ered rose.  In  the  act  the  flower  slipped 
from  the  glass.  Noticing  how  carefully 
he  moved  the  cup  aside,  and  how  tenderly 
he  replaced  the  shrivelled  bud,  I said 
laughingly : — 

“ You  not  only  love  old  books,  but  old 
flowers  as  well.” 

He  looked  at  me  thoughtfully,  and  re- 
plied gravely  : — 

“Some  flowers  are  never  old.” 

In  the  glare  of  the  sunlight  of  the  street 
I met  Moon.  He  had  been  searching  for 
me  for  an  hour. 


164  A White  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


“ Did  you  find  that  hole  in  the  wall  ? ” 
he  called  out.  “ Come  over  here  where 
the  wind  can  blow  through  you.  You 
must  feel  like  a grave-digger.  Where  is 
your  sketch  ? ” 

I had  no  sketch  and  told  him  so.  The 
interior  was  in  truth  delightfully  pictur- 
esque, but  the  young  priest  was  so  charm- 
ing that  I had  not  even  opened  my  trap. 

“ What  sort  of  a looking  priest  ? ” 

I described  him  as  closely  as  1 could. 

“It  sounds  like  Geronimo.  Yes  — 
same  priest.” 

“Hell  — ? ” 

“ Oh  ! the  old  story  and  a sad  one. 
Gray  dawn  — muffled  figures  — obliging 
duenna  — diligence  — governor  on  horse- 
back— girl  locked  up  in  a hacienda  — 
student  forced  into  the  church.  Queer 
things  happen  in  Mexico,  my  boy,  and 
cruel  ones  too.” 


CHAPTER  X. 

TO  MORELIA  WITH  MOON. 

Moon  insists  on  going  to  Morelia  with 
me.  He  has  a number  of  reasons  for  this 
sudden  resolve  : that  the  senoritas  are 
especially  charming  and  it  is  dangerous 
for  me  to  go  alone  ; that  he  knows  the 
sacristan  major  of  the  cathedral  and  can 
buy  for  me  for  a song  the  entire  movable 
property  of  the  church;  that  there  is  a 
lovely  alameda  overgrown  with  wild  roses, 
and  that  it  is  so  tangled  up  and  crooked 
I will  lose  the  best  part  of  it  if  he  does 


1 66  A White  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


not  pilot  me  about ; and  finally,  when  I 
demur,  that  he  has  received  a dispatch 
from  his  chief  to  meet  him  in  Morelia  on 
the  morrow,  and  he  must  go  anyhow. 

He  appears  the  next  morning  in  a 
brown  linen  suit,  with  the  same  old  som- 
brero slanted  over  one  eye,  and  the  loose 
end  of  his  necktie  tossed  over  his  shoul- 
der. On  the  way  to  the  station  he  holds  a 
dozen  interviews  with  citizens  occupying 
balconies  along  the  route.  He  generally 
conducts  these  from  the  middle  of  the 
street,  pitching  his  voice  to  suit  the  eleva- 
tion. Then  he  deflects  to  the  sidewalk, 
runs  his  head  into  the  door  of  a posada, 
wakes  up  the  inmates  with  a volley  of  sal- 
utations, bobs  out  again,  hails  by  name  the 
driver  of  a tram,  and  when  he  comes  to 
a standstill  calls  out  that  he  has  changed 
his  mind  and  will  walk,  and  so  arrives  at 
the  station  bubbling  over  with  good  hu- 
mor, and  as  restless  as  a schoolboy. 

1 cannot  help  liking  this  breezy  fellow 
despite  his  piratical  air,  his  avowed  con- 
tempt for  all  the  laws  that  govern  well-reg- 
ulated society,  and  his  professed  unbelief 
in  the  sincerity  of  everybody’s  motives. 


To  Morelia  with  Moon 


i6y 


His  acquaintance  is  marvellous.  He 
knows  everybody,  from  the  water-carrier 
to  the  archbishop.  He  speaks  not  only 
Spanish  but  half  a dozen  native  dialects 
picked  up  from  the  Indians  while  he  was 
constructing  the  railroad.  He  has  lived  in 
every  town  and  village  on  the  line  ; knows 
Morelia,  Patzcuaro,  Tzintzuntzan,  and  the 
lake  as  thoroughly  as  he  does  his  own 
abiding-place  at  Zacate'cas ; is  perfectly 
familiar  with  all  the  mountain  trails  and 
short  cuts  across  plains  and  foothills ; is 
a born  tramp,  the  best  of  Bohemians,  and 
the  most  entertaining  travelling  compan- 
ion possible. 

His  baggage  is  exceedingly  limited.  It 
consists  of  a tooth-brush,  two  collars,  and 
a bundle  of  cigars.  He  replies  to  my  re- 
marks on  its  compactness,  that  “anybody’s 
shirts  fit  him,  and  that  he  has  plenty  of 
friends  up  the  road.”  And  yet  with  all 
this  there  is  something  about  the  fearless 
way  in  which  he  looks  you  straight  in  the 
eye,  and  something  about  the  firm  lines 
around  his  mouth,  that,  in  spite  of  his 
devil-may-care  recklessness,  convinces  you 
of  his  courage  and  sincerity. 


1 68  A White  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


“ Crawl  over  here,”  he  breaks  out  from 
the  end  of  the  car,  “ and  see  this  hacienda. 
Every  square  acre  you  see,  including  that 
range  of  mountains,  belongs  to  one  Mexi- 
can. It  covers  exactly  one  hundred  and 
twenty  square  miles.  The  famished  pau- 
per who  owns  it  has  taken  five  millions  of 
dollars  from  it  during  the  last  fifteen 
years.  For  the  next  eighteen  miles  you 
will  ride  through  his  land.” 

“ Does  he  live  here  ? ” I inquired. 

“No,  he  knows  better.  He  lives  in 
Paris  like  a lord,  and  spends  every  cent 
of  it.” 

We  were  entering  the  lake  country,  and 
caught  glimpses  of  Cuitzo  shimmering 
through  the  hills. 

“ These  shores  are  alive  with  wild  fowl,” 
continued  Moon ; “ there  goes  a flight  of 
storks  now.  You  can  bag  a pelican  and 
half  a dozen  flamingoes  any  morning 
along  here  before  breakfast.  But  you 
should  see  the  Indians  hunt.  They  never 
use  a gun  when  they  go  ducking.  They 
tie  a sharp  knife  to  a long  pole  and  spear 
the  birds  as  they  fly  over.  When  they 
fish  they  strew  green  boughs  along  the 


To  Morelia,  with  Moon  169 


water’s  edge,  and  when  the  fish  seek  the 
shade,  scoop  them  up  with  a dip  net  made 
from  the  fibre  of  the  pulque  plant.  This 
country  has  changed  but  little  since  that 
old  pirate  Cortez  took  possession  of  it, 
as  far  as  the  Indians  go.  Many  of  them 
cannot  understand  a word  of  Spanish  now, 
and  I had  to  pick  up  their  jargon  myself, 
when  I was  here.” 

“ Hello,  Goggles  ! ” he  shouted  out, 
suddenly  jumping  from  his  seat  as  the 
train  stopped.  I looked  out  and  saw  a 
poor  blind  beggar,  guided  by  a boy  with 
a stick. 

“ I thought  you  were  dead  long  ago.” 

In  a moment  more  he  was  out  of  the 
train  and  had  the  old  man  by  the  hand. 
When  he  turned  away,  I could  see  by  the 
way  the  blind  face  lighted  up  that  he  had 
made  him  the  richer  in  some  way.  The 
boy  too  seemed  overjoyed,  and  would 
have  left  his  helpless  charge  in  the  push- 
ing crowd  but  for  Moon,  who  snatched 
away  the  leading  stick,  and  placed  it  in 
the  beggar’s  hand  again.  Then  he  fell  to 
berating  the  boy  for  his  carelessness,  with- 
out, however,  diminishing  in  the  least  the 


lyo  A White  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


latter’s  good  humor,  raising  his  voice  un- 
til the  car  windows  were  filled  with  heads. 

All  this  in  a dialect  that  was  wholly  un- 
intelligible. 

“You  know  the  beggar,”  I remarked. 

“ Of  course.  Old  Tizapan.  Lost  his 
eyes  digging  in  a silver  mine.  That  little 
devil  is  his  grandson.  If  I had  my  way 
I would  dig  a hole  and  fill  it  up  with 
these  cripples.” 

When  we  reached  Morelia  it  was  quite 
dark,  and  yet  it  was  difficult  to  get  Moon 
out  of  the  station,  so  many  people  had 
a word  to  say  to  him.  When  we  arrived 
at  the  hotel  fronting  the  plaza  he  was 
equally  welcome,  everybody  greeting  him. 

It  was  especially  delightful  to  see  the 
landlord.  He  first  fell  upon  his  neck  and 
embraced  him,  then  stood  off  at  a dis- 
tance and  admired  him  with  his  arms 
akimbo,  drinking  in  every  word  of  Moon’s 
raillery.  At  the  bare  mention  of  dinner, 
he  rushed  off  and  brought  in  the  cook 
whom  Moon  addressed  instantly  as  Grid- 
dles, running  from  Spanish  into  English 
and  French,  and  back  again  into  Spanish, 
in  the  most  surprising  way. 


To  Morelia  with  Moon 


171 

“ We  will  have  a Mexican  dinner  for  the 
painter,  Griddles  ! No  bon  louche , but  a 
square  meal,  tin  buena  comida  ! magnified  ! 
especially  some  little  fish  baked  in  corn 
husks,  peppers  stuffed  with  tomatoes  with 
plenty  of  chile , an  onion  salad  with  garlic, 
stewed  figs,  and  a cup  of  Uruapam  coffee, 
— the  finest  in  the  world,”  — this  last  to 
me. 

Later  all  these  were  duly  served  and 
deliciously  cooked,  and  opened  my  eyes 
to  the  resources  of  a Mexican  kitchen  when 
ordered  by  an  expert. 

In  the  morning  Moon  started  for  his 
friend  the  sacristan.  He  found  him  up  a 
long  flight  of  stone  steps  in  one  end  of 
the  cathedral.  But  he  was  helpless,  even 
for  Moon.  We  must  find  Padre  Bailo,  who 
lived  near  the  Zocolo.  He  had  the  keys 
and  charge  of  all  the  wornout  church 
property.  Another  long  search  across 
plazas  and  in  and  out  of  market  stalls, 
and  Padre  Bailo  was  encountered  leaving 
his  house  on  his  way  back  to  the  cathe- 
dral. But  it  was  impossible.  Manana 
por  la  mahana,  or  perhaps  next  week,  but 
not  to-day.  Moon  took  the  dried-up  old 


1J2  A White  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


fossil  aside,  and  brought  him  back  in  five 
minutes  smiling  all  over  with  a promise 
to  unlock  everything  on  my  return  from 
Patzcuaro. 

“Now  for  the  alameda.  It  is  the  most 
delightful  old  tangle  in  Mexico : rose- 
trees  as  high  as  a house ; by-paths  over- 
grown with  vines  and  lost  in  beds  of  vio- 
lets ; stone  benches  galore ; through  the 
centre  an  aqueduct  so  light  it  might  be 
built  of  looped  ribbons ; and  such  seiio- 
ritas ! I met  a girl  under  one  of  those 
arches  who  would  have  taken  your  breath 
away.  She  had  a pair  of  eyes,  and  a foot, 
and  ” — 

“Never  mind  what  the  girl  had,  Moon. 
We  may  find  her  yet  on  one  of  the 
benches  and  I will  judge  for  myself. 
Show  me  the  alameda.” 

“ Come  on,  then.” 

At  the  end  of  a beautiful  street  nearly 
half  a mile  long,  — in  reality  a raised  stone 
causeway  with  stone  parapets  and  stone 
benches  on  either  side,  and  shaded  its  en- 
tire length  by  a double  row  of  magnificent 
elms,  — I found  the  abandoned  Paseo  de 
las  Lechugas  (the  street  of  the  Lettuces). 


To  Morelia  with  Moon 


1 73 


Moon  had  not  exaggerated  the  charm 
of  its  surroundings.  Acacias  and  elms 
interlaced  their  branches  across  the  walks, 
roses  ran  riot  over  the  stone  benches, 
twisted  their  stems  in  and  out  of  the  rail- 
ings, and  tossed  their  blossoms  away  up 
in  the  branches  of  the  great  trees.  High 
up  against  the  blue,  the  graceful  aqueduct 
stepped  along  on  his  slender  legs  tram- 
pling the  high  grass,  and  through  and  into 
and  over  all,  the  afternoon  sun  poured  its 
flood  of  gold. 

The  very  unkempt  deserted  air  of  the 
place  added  to  its  beauty.  It  looked  as 
if  the  forces  of  nature,  no  longer  checked, 
had  held  high  revel,  and  in  their  glee  had 
well-nigh  effaced  all  trace  of  closely 
cropped  hedge,  rectangular  flower-bed, 
and  fantastic  shrub.  The  very  poppies 
had  wandered  from  their  beds  and  stared 
at  me  from  the  roadside  with  brazen  faces, 
and  the  once  dignified  tiger- lilies  had 
turned  tramps  and  sat  astride  of  the 
crumbling  curbs,  nodding  gayly  at  me  as 
I passed. 

“ Did  I not  tell  you  ? ” broke  out  Moon. 

‘ How  would  you  like  to  be  lost  in  a tan- 


tj4  d IVbite  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


gle  like  this  for  a month  with  a Fatinitza 
all  eyes  and  perfume,  with  little  Hotten- 
tots to  serve  you  ices,  and  fan  you  with 
peacock  tails  ? ” 

I admitted  my  inability  to  offer  any 
valid  objection  to  any  such  delicious  ex- 
perience, and  intimated  that,  but  for  one 
obstacle,  he  could  bring  on  his  Hotten- 
tots and  trimmings  at  once — I was  en 
route  for  Patzcuaro,  Tzintziintzan,  and  the 
Titian. 

This  was  news  to  Moon.  He  had  ex- 
pected Patzcuaro,  that  being  the  terminus 
of  the  greatest  railroad  of  the  continent, 
— P.  Moon,  Civil  Engineer,  — but  what 
any  sane  man  wanted  to  wander  around 
looking  for  a dirty  adobe  Indian  village 
like  Tzintziintzan,  away  up  a lake,  with 
nothing  but  a dug-out  to  paddle  there  in, 
and  not  a place  to  put  your  head  in  after 
you  landed,  was  a mystery  to  him.  Be- 
sides, who  said  there  was  any  Titian  ? At 
all  events,  I might  stay  in  Morelia  until 
I could  find  my  way  around  alone.  The 
Titian  had  already  hung  there  three  hun- 
dred years,  he  thought  it  would  hold  out 
for  a day  or  two  longer. 


To  Morelia  with  Moon 


'75 


So  we  continued  rambling  about  this 
most  delightful  of  all  the  Mexican  cities ; 
across  the  plaza  of  La  Paz  at  night ; sit- 
ting under  the  trees  listening  to  the  mu- 
sic, and  watching  the  love-making  on  the 
benches  ; in  the  cathedral  at  early  mass, 
stopping  for  fruit  and  a cup  of  coffee  at 
the  market  on  the  way ; through  the  col- 
lege of  San  Nicholas  where  Fray  Gero- 
nimo  had  studied;  to  the  governor’s 
house  to  listen  to  a concert  and  to  present 
ourselves  to  his  excellency,  who  had  sent 
for  us  ; to  the  great  pawn-shop,  the  Monte 
de  Piedad,  on  the  regular  day  of  sale,  and 
to  the  thousand  and  one  delights  of  this 
dolce  far  niente  city ; returning  always  at 
sundown  to  the  inn,  to  be  welcomed  by 
the  landlord,  who  shouted  for  Griddles  the 
moment  he  laid  eyes  on  Moon,  and  began 
spreading  the  cloth  on  the  little  table  un- 
der the  fig-tree  in  the  garden. 

After  this  Bohemian  existence  had 
lasted  for  several  days  I suddenly  remem- 
bered that  Moon  had  not  been  out  of  my 
sight  five  waking  minutes;  and  being  anx- 
ious for  his  welfare,  I ventured  to  jog  his 
memory. 


i y6  A White  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


“ Moon,  did  you  not  tell  me  that  you 
came  here  on  orders  from  your  chief,  who 
wanted  you  on  urgent  business  and  was 
waiting  for  you  ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“ Have  you  seen  him  ? ” 

“ No.” 

“ Heard  from  him  ? ” 

“ No.  ” 

“ What  are  you  going  to  do  about  it  ? ” 
“ Let  him  wait.” 


CHAPTER  XI. 


PATZCUARO  AND  THE  LAKE. 

When  I rapped  at  Moon’s  door  the 
next  morning  he  refused  to  open  it.  He 
apologized  for  this  refusal  by  roaring 
through  the  transom  that  the  thought  of 
my  leaving  him  alone  in  Morelia  had 
caused  him  a sleepless  night,  and  that  he 
had  determined  never  to  look  upon  my 
face  again  ; that  he  had  “ never  loved  a 
dear  gazelle,”  etc.,  — this  last  sung  in  a 
high  key  ; that  he  was  not  coming  out ; 
and  that  I might  go  to  Patzcuaro  and  be 
hanged  to  me. 

So  the  landlord  and  Griddles  escorted 


iy8  A White  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


me  to  the  station,  the  chef  carrying  my 
traps,  and  the  landlord  a mysterious  bas- 
ket with  a suggestive  bulge  in  one  corner 
of  the  paper  covering.  As  the  train 
moved  slowly  out,  this  basket  was  passed 
through  the  window  with  a remark  that 
Mr.  Moon  had  prepared  it  the  night  be- 
fore, with  especial  instructions  not  to  de- 
liver it  until  I was  under  way.  On  remov- 
ing the  covering  the  bulge  proved  to  be 
glass,  with  a tin  foil  covering  the  cork,  on 
top  of  which  was  a card  bearing  the 
superscription  of  my  friend,  with  a line 
stating  that  “ charity  of  the  commonest 
kind  had  influenced  him  in  this  attempt 
to  keep  me  from  starving  during  my  idi- 
otic search  for  the  Titian,  that  the  dulces 
beneath  were  the  pride  of  Morelia,  the 
fruit  quite  fresh,  and  the  substratum 
of  sandwiches  the  best  Griddles  could 
make.” 

I thanked  the  cheery  fellow  in  my  heart, 
forgave  him  his  eccentricities,  and  won- 
dered whether  I should  ever  see  his  like 
again. 

An  hour  later  I had  finished  the  cus- 
tomary inventory  of  the  car  : the  padre 


Pat^cuaro  and  the  Lake  179 


very  moist  and  very  dusty  as  if  he  had 
reached  the  station  from  afar,  mule-back  ; 
the  young  Hidalgo  with  buckskin  jacket, 
red  sash,  open  slashed  buckskin  breeches 
with  silver  buttons  of  bulls’  heads  down 
the  seam,  wide  sombrero,  and  the  ivory 
handle  of  a revolver  protruding  from  his 
hip  pocket;  the  two  demure  senoritas 
dressed  in  black  with  veils  covering  their 
heads  and  shoulders,  attended  by  the 
stout  duenna  on  the  adjoining  seat  with 
fat  pudgy  hands,  hoop  earrings,  and  rest- 
less eyes ; the  old  Mexican,  thin,  yellow, 
and  dried  up,  with  a cigarette  glued  to 
his  lower  lip. 

I had  looked  them  all  over  carefully, 
speculating  as  one  does  over  their  several 
occupations  and  antecedents,  and  feeling 
the  loss  of  my  encyclopaedic  friend  in 
unravelling  their  several  conditions,  when 
the  door  of  the  car  immediately  in  front 
of  me  opened,  and  that  ubiquitous  in- 
dividual himself  slowly  sauntered  in,  his 
cravat  flying,  and  his  bi"  sombrero  flat- 
tened against  the  back  of  his  head.  T he 
only  change  in  his  costume  had  been  the 
replacing  of  his  brown  linen  suit  with  one 


180  A White  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


of  a fine  blue  check,  newly  washed  and 
ironed  in  streaks.  From  his  vest  pocket 
protruded  his  customary  baggage,  — the 
ivory  handle  and  the  points  of  two  cigars. 

“ Why,  Moon ! ” I blurted  out,  com- 
pletely surprised.  “ Where  did  you  come 
from  ? ” 

“Baggage  car — had  a nap.  Got  the 
basket,  I see.” 

“ I left  you  in  bed,”  I continued. 

“You  didn’t.  Was  shivering  on  the 
outside  waiting  for  the  landlord’s  clothes. 
How  do  they  fit  ? Left  mine  to  be 
washed.” 

“ Where  are  you  going  ? ” I insisted, 
determined  not  to  be  side-tracked. 

“ To  Patzcuaro.”  Then  with  a merry 
twinkle  in  his  eye  he  leaned  forward, 
canted  his  sombrero  over  his  left  eye,  and 
shading  his  mouth  with  its  brim  whis- 
pered confidentially,  “You  see,  I got  a 
dispatch  from  my  chief  to  meet  him  in 
Patzcuaro,  and  I managed  by  hurrying  a 
little  to  catch  this  train.” 

Patzcuaro  lies  on  a high  hill  overlook- 
ing the  lake.  The  beautiful  sheet  of  wa- 
ter at  its  foot,  some  twenty  miles  long 


Pat{cuaro  and  the  Lake 


181 


and  ten  wide,  is  surrounded  by  forest- 
clad  hills  and  studded  with  islands,  and 
peopled  almost  exclusively  by  Indians, 
who  support  themselves  by  fishing. 

The  town  is  built  upon  hilly  broken 
ground,  the  streets  are  narrow  and  crook- 
ed, and  thoroughly  Moorish  in  their  char- 
acter, and  the  general  effect  picturesque 
in  the  extreme. 

On  alighting  from  the  train  it  was  evi- 
dent that  the  progressiveness  of  the  nine- 
teenth century  ended  at  the  station. 
Drawn  up  in  the  road  stood  a lumbering 
stage-coach  and  five  horses.  It  was  as 
large  as  a country  barn,  and  had  enor- 
mous wheels  bound  with  iron  and  as 
heavy  as  an  artillery  wagon’s.  In  front, 
there  hung  a boot  made  of  leather  an 
inch  thick,  with  a multitude  of  straps  and 
buckles.  Behind,  a similar  boot,  with 
more  straps  and  buckles.  On  top  was 
fastened  an  iron  railing,  protecting  an 
immense  load  of  miscellaneous  freight. 
There  was  also  a flight  of  steps  that  let 
down  in  sections,  with  a hand-rail  to  as- 
sist the  passenger.  Within  and  without, 
on  cushions,  sides,  curtains,  over  top,  bag- 


182  A White  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


gage,  wheels,  driver,  horses,  and  harness 
the  gray  dust  lay  in  layers,  — not  sifted 
over  it,  but  piled  up  in  heaps. 

The  closest  scrutiny  on  my  companion’s 
part  failed  to  reveal  the  existence  of  any- 
thing resembling  a spring  made  either  of 
leather,  rawhide,  or  steel.  This  last  was  a 
disappointment  to  Moon,  who  said  that 
occasionally  some  coaches  were  built  that 
way. 

But  two  passengers  entered  it,  — Moon 
and  I ; the  others,  not  being  strangers, 
walked.  The  distance  to  the  town  from 
the  station  is  some  two  miles,  up  hill.  It 
was  not  until  my  trap  rose  from  the  floor, 
took  a flying  leap  across  the  middle  of  the 
seat,  and  landed  edgewise  below  Moon’s 
breastbone,  that  I began  to  fully  realize 
how  badly  the  authorities  had  neglected 
the  highway.  Moon  coincided,  remarking 
that  they  had  evidently  blasted  it  out  in 
the  rough,  but  the  pieces  had  not  been 
gathered  up. 

We  arrived  first,  entering  the  arcade  of 
the  Fonda  Concordia  afoot,  the  coach 
lumbering  along  later  minus  half  its  top 
freight. 


Pat^cuaro  and  the  Lake 


183 


A cup  of  coffee,  — none  better  than  this 
native  coffee,  — an  omelet  with  peppers, 
and  some 
fruit,  and 
Moon  start- 
ed out  to 
make  ar- 
rangements 
for  my  trip 
up  the  lake 
to  T z i n - 
tzuntzan 
and  the  Titian,  and  I 
with  my  sketch-book 
to  see  the  town. 

A closer  view  was 
not  disappointing. 

Patzcuaro  is  more 
Moorish  than  any 
city  in  Mexico.  The 
houses  have  over- 
hanging eaves  sup- 
ported by  roof  raf- 


ters similar  to  those 

seen  in  southern  Spain.  I he  verandas 
are  shaded  by  awnings  and  choked  up 
with  flowers.  The  arcades  are  flanked  by 


184  A White  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


slender  Moorish  columns,  the  streets  are 
crossed  by  swinging  lanterns  stretched 
from  house  to  house  by  iron  chains,  the 
windows  and  doorways  are  surmounted 
by  the  horseshoe  arch  of  the  Alhambra, 
and  the  whole  place  inside  and  out  re- 
minds you  of  Toledo  transplanted.  Al- 
though seven  thousand  feet  above  the 
level  of  the  sea,  it  is  so  near  the  edge  of 
the  slope  running  down  into  the  hot  coun- 
try that  its  market  is  filled  with  tropical 
fruits  unknown  on  the  plateau  of  Mexico 
farther  east,  and  the  streets  thronged  with 
natives  dressed  in  costumes  never  met 
with  in  high  latitudes. 

Tradition  has  it  that  in  the  days  of  the 
good  Bishop  Quiroga,  when  the  See  of 
Michoacan  was  removed  hither  from  Tzin- 
tzuntzan,  Patzcuaro  gave  promise  of  being 
an  important  city,  as  is  proved  by  the  un- 
finished cathedral.  When,  however,  the 
See  was  again  removed  to  Morelia  the 
town  rapidly  declined,  until  to-day  it  is  the 
least  important  of  the  old  cities  of  Michoa- 
can. The  plaza  is  trodden  down  and  sur- 
rounded by  market  stalls,  the  churches  are 
either  abandoned  or,  what  is  worse,  reno- 


Patqcuaro  and  the  Lake  185 

vated,  and  there  is  nothing  left  of  interest 
to  the  idler  and  antiquary,  outside  of  the 
charm  of  its  picturesque  streets  and  loca- 
tion, except  it  may  be  the  tomb  of  the 
great  bishop  himself,  who  lies  buried  un- 
der the  altar  of  the  Jesuit  church,  the 
Campania,  — his  bones  wrapped  in  silk. 

I made  some  memoranda  in  my  sketch- 
book, bought  some  coffee,  lacquer  ware, 
and  feather  work,  and  returned  to  the  inn 
to  look  for  Moon.  He  was  sitting  under 
the  arcade,  his  feet  against  the  column 
and  his  chair  tilted  back,  smoking.  He 
began  as  soon  as  I came  within  range . 

“ Yes,  know  all  about  it.  You  can  go 
there  three  ways  : over  the  back  of  a don- 
key, aboard  an  Indian  canoe,  or  swim." 

“ How  far  is  it  ? ” 

“ Fifteen  miles.” 

The  Titian  looked  smaller  and  less  im- 
portant than  at  any  time  since  my  leaving 
the  city  of  Mexico. 

“ What  do  you  suggest  ? ” 

“ I am  not  suggesting,  I ’m  a passen- 
ger.” 

“ You  going  ? ” 

“ Of  course.  Think  I would  leave  you 


1 86  A White  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


here  to  be  murdered  by  these  devils  for 
your  watch  key  ? ” 

The  picture  loomed  up  once  more. 

“ Then  we  will  take  the  canoe.” 

“Next  week  you  will,  not  now.  Listen. 
Yesterday  was  market  day;  market  day 
comes  Tut  once  a week.  There  are  no 
canoes  on  the  beach  below  us  from  as  far 
up  the  lake  as  Tzintzuntzan,  and  the  fish- 
ermen from  Zanicho  and  towns  nearer  by 
refuse  to  paddle  so  far.” 

He  threw  away  his  cigar,  elongated 
himself  a foot  or  more,  broke  out  into  a 
laugh  at  my  discomfiture,  slipped  his 
arm  through  mine,  and  remarked  apolo- 
getically “ that  he  had  sent  for  a man  and 
had  an  idea.” 

In  half  an  hour  the  man  arrived,  and 
with  him  the  information  that  some  em- 
ployees of  the  road  had  recently  con- 
structed from  two  Indian  dug-out  canoes 
a sort  of  catamaran  ; that  a deck  had  been 
floored  between,  a mast  stepped,  and  a 
sail  rigged  thereon.  The  craft  awaited 
our  pleasure. 

Moon’s  idea  oozed  out  in  driblets. 
Fully  developed,  it  recommended  the  im- 


,8? 


Pat^cuaro  and  the  Lake 

mediate  stocking  of  the  ship  with  provi- 
sions, the  hiring  of  six  Indians  with  sweep 
oars,  and  a start  bright  and  early  on  the 
morrow  for  Tzintzuntzan ; Moon  to  be 
commodore  and  hold  the  tiller ; I to  have 


the  captain’s  stateroom,  with  free  use  of 
the  deck. 

The  morning  dawned  deliciously  cool 
and  bright.  Moon  followed  half  an  hour 
later,  embodying  all  the  characteristics  of 
the  morning  and  supplementing  a few  of 
his  own,  — another  suit  of  clothes,  a cloth 
cap,  and  an  enormous  spyglass. 


1 88  A IVhite  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


The  clothes  were  the  result  of  a further 
exchange  of  courtesies  with  a brother  en- 
gineer, the  cap  replaced  his  time-worn 
broad  sombrero,  “ out  of  courtesy  to  the 
sail,”  he  said,  and  the  spyglass  would  be 
useful  either  as  a club  of  defence,  or  to 
pole  over  shoal  places,  or  in  examining  the 
details  of  the  Titian.  “ It  might  be  hung 
high,  and  he  wanted  to  see  it.” 

These  explanations,  however,  were  cut 
short  by  the  final  preparations  for  the 
start,  — Moon  giving  orders  in  true  nau- 
tical style,  making  fast  the  rudder,  calling 
all  hands  aft  to  stow  the  various  baskets 
and  hampers,  battening  down  the  trap  door 
hatches,  and  getting  everything  snug  and 
trim  for  a voyage  of  discovery  as  absurd 
to  him  as  if  entered  upon  for  the  finding 
of  the  Holy  Grail. 

Finally  all  was  ready,  Moon  seized  the 
tiller,  and  gave  the  order  to  cast  off.  A 
faint  cheer  went  up  from  the  group  of  na- 
tives on  the  shore,  the  wind  gave  a kindly 
puff,  the  six  Indians,  stripped  to  their 
waists,  bent  to  their  oars,  and  the  catama- 
ran drifted  clear  of  the  gravel  beach,  and 
bore  away  up  the  lake  to  Tzintzuntzan. 


Pat^cuaro  and  the  Lake 


i8g 


She  was  certainly  as  queer  a looking 
craft  as  ever  trailed  a rudder.  To  be  ex- 
act, she  was  about  thirty  feet  long,  half  as 
wide,  and  drew  a hand’s-breadth  of  water. 
Her  bow  flooring  was  slightly  trimmed  to 
a point ; her  square  stern  was  protected 
by  a bench  a foot  wide  and  high,  — form- 
ing a sort  of  open  locker  under  which  a 
man  could  crawl  and  escape  the  sun  ; 
her  deck  was  flat,  and  broken  only  by  the 
mast,  which  was  well  forward,  and  the 
rests  or  giant  oarlocks  which  held  the 
sweeps.  The  rudder  was  a curiosity.  It 
was  half  as  long  as  the  boat,  and  hung 
over  the  stern  like  the  pole  of  an  old- 
fashioned  well-sweep.  When  fulfilling  its 
destiny  it  had  as  free  charge  of  the  deck 
as  the  boom  of  a fishing  smack  in  a gale 
of  wind.  Another  peculiarity  of  the  rud- 
der was  its  independent  action.  It  not 
only  had  ideas  of  its  own  but  followed 
them.  The  skipper  followed  too  after  a 
brief  struggle,  and  walked  miles  across 
the  deck  in  humoring  its  whims.  The 
sail  was  unique.  It  was  made  of  a tarpau- 
lin which  had  seen  better  days  as  the  fly 
of  a camping  tent,  and  was  nailed  flat  to 


igo  A White  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


the  short  boom  which  wandered  up  and 
down  the  rude  mast  at  will,  assisted  by 
half  a dozen  barrel  hoops  and  the  iron 
tire  of  a wheelbarrow.  Two  trap  doors, 
cut  midway  the  deck,  led  into  the  bowels 
of  the  dug  - outs,  and  proved  useful  in 
bailing  out  leakage  and  overwash. 

As  I was  only  cabin  passenger  and  so 
without  responsibility,  I stretched  my 
length  along  the  bench  and  watched 
Moon  handle  the  ship.  At  first  all  went 
smoothly,  the  commodore  grasped  the  til- 
ler as  cordially  as  if  it  had  been  the  hand 
of  his  dearest  friend,  and  the  wilful  rud- 
der, lulled  to  sleep  by  the  outburst,  swayed 
obediently  back  and  forth.  The  tarpau- 
lin, meanwhile,  bursting  with  the  pride  of 
its  promotion,  bent  to  the  breeze  in  an 
honest  effort  to  do  its  share.  Suddenly 
the  wind  changed  ; the  inflated  sail  lost 
its  head  and  clung  wildly  to  the  mast,  the 
catamaran  careened,  Moon  gave  a vicious 
jerk,  and  the  rudder  awoke.  Then  fol- 
lowed a series  of  misunderstandings  be- 
tween the  commodore  and  the  thoroughly 
aroused  well-sweep  which  enlivened  all 
the  dull  passages  of  the  voyage,  and  in- 


Patqcuaro  and  the  Lake  191 


troduced  into  the  general  conversation 
every  variety  of  imprecation  known  to  me 
in  languages  with  which  I am  familiar, 
assisted  and  enlarged  by  several  dialects 
understood  and  appreciated  only  by  the 
six  silent,  patient  men  keeping  up  their 
rhythmic  movement  at  the  sweeps. 

When  we  reached  the  first  headland 
on  our  weather  bow  the  wind  freshened 
to  a stiff  breeze,  and  after  a brief  struggle 
Moon  decided  to  go  about.  I saw  at  a 
glance  that  the  catamaran  held  different 
views,  and  that  it  was  encouraged  and 
“ egged  ” on,  so  to  speak,  by  its  co-con- 
spirator  the  rudder. 

“ You  men  on  the  right,  stop  rowing.” 

This  order  was  emphasized  by  an  empty 
bottle  thrown  from  the  locker.  The  three 
Indians  stood  motionless. 

“ Haul  that  boom,”  — this  to  me,  sketch- 
ing with  my  feet  over  the  stern. 

I obeyed  with  the  agility  of  a man- 
o’-war’s  man.  The  sail  flapped  wildly,  the 
rudder  gave  a staggering  lurch,  and  Moon 
measured  his  length  on  the  deck  ! 

By  the  time  the  commodore  had  re- 
gained his  feet  he  had  exhausted  his  vo- 


ig2  A White  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


cabulary.  Then  with  teeth  hard  set  he 
lashed  the  rebellious  rudder  fast  to  the 
locker,  furled  the  crestfallen  sail,  and  re- 
signed the  boat  to  the  native  crew.  Five 
minutes  later  he  was  stretched  flat  on  the 
deck,  bubbling  over  with  good  humor,  and 
gloating  over  the  contents  of  the  hampers 
piled  up  around  him. 

“ That  town  over  your  shoulder  on  the 
right  is  Xanicho,”  he  rattled  on,  pointing 
with  his  fork  to  some  adobe  huts  clus- 
tered around  a quaint  church  spire. 

“ If  we  had  time  and  a fair  wind,  I should 
like  to  show  you  the  interior.  It  is  ex- 
actly as  the  Jesuits  left  it  three  hundred 
years  ago.  Away  over  there  on  the  right 
is  Xaracuaro.  You  can  see  from  here  the 
ruins  of  the  convent  and  of  half  a dozen 
brown  hovels.  Nobody  there  now  but 
fishermen.  The  only  white  man  in  the 
village  is  the  priest,  and  I would  not 
wager  to  his  being  so  all  the  way  through. 
A little  farther  along,  over  that  island,  if 
you  look  close  you  can  see  a small  town  ; 
it  is  Iguatzio.  There  are  important  Az- 
tecs remains  about  it.  A paved  roadway 
leads  to  the  adjoining  village,  which  was 


Pa  thenar o ami  the  Lake 


193 


built  long  before  the  coming  of  the  Span- 
iards. I do  not  believe  all  the  marvellous 
stories  told  of  the  Aztec  sacrifices,  but 
over  the  hill  yonder  is  the  ruins  of  the 
only  genuine  Teocalli,  if  there  ever  was 
such  a thing,  in  Mexico.  I have  made 
a study  of  these  so-called  Aztec  monu- 
ments and  have  examined  most  of  the 
Teocallis  or  sacrificial  mounds  of  Mon- 
tezuma’s people  without  weakening  much 
my  unbelief,  but  I confess  this  one  puz- 
zles me.  One  day  last  winter  I heard 
the  Indians  talking  about  this  mound, 
and  two  of  us  paddled  over.  It  lies  in 
a hollow  of  the  hills  back  of  the  town, 
and  is  inclosed  by  a stone  wall  about 
one  thousand  feet  long,  eight  feet  high, 
and  four  feet  wide.  I he  1 eocalli  itself 
stands  in  the  middle  of  this  quadrangle. 
It  is  constructed  in  the  form  of  a trun- 
cated cone  about  one  hundred  feet  square 
at  the  base  and  nearly  as  high,  built 
entirely  of  stone,  with  an  outside  stairway 
winding  around  its  four  sides.  On  one 
corner  of  the  top  are  the  remains  of  a 
small  temple.  I do  not  think  half  a hun- 
dred people  outside  the  natives  have  ever 


1 94  d White  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


seen  it.  If  it  is  not  a Teocalli  there  is 
not  one  in  all  Mexico.  The  fact  is,  no 
other  Aztec  mound  in  Mexico  is  worthy  of 
the  name,  — not  even  Cholula.” 

Suddenly  a low  point,  until  now  hidden 
by  an  intervening  headland,  pushed  itself 
into  the  lake.  Moon  reached  for  his  spy- 
glass and  adjusted  the  sliding  tube. 

“ Do  you  see  those  two  white  specks 
over  that  flat  shore  ? ” 

“ Perfectly.” 

“ And  the  clump  of  dark  trees  surround- 
ing it  ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“Well,  that  is  Tzintzuntzan.  The  big 
speck  is  what  is  left  of  the  old  Franciscan 
convent,  the  clump  of  trees  is  the  olive 
orchard,  the  ancient  burial-place  of  the 
Aztecs.  The  little  speck  is  the  top  of  the 
dome  of  the  convent  chapel,  beneath 
which  hangs  your  daub  of  a Titian.” 


CHAPTER  XII. 

TZINTZtfNTZAN  AND  THE  TITIAN. 

The  catamaran  rounded  the  point, 
floated  slowly  up  to  the  beach,  and  an- 
chored on  a shoal  within  a boat  s-length 
of  the  shore.  Strung  along  the  water’s 
edge,  with  wonder  - stricken  faces,  were 
gathered  half  of  the  entire  population  of 
Tzintzuntzan.  The  other  half  were  com- 
ing at  full  speed  over  the  crest  of  the  hill, 
which  partly  hid  the  village  itself. 

There  being  but  two  feet  of  water,  and 
those  wet  ones,  Moon  shot  an  order  in  an 
unknown  tongue  into  the  group  in  front, 


ig6  A White  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


starting  two 
of  them  for- 
ward, swung 
himself  grace- 
fully over  the 
shoulders  of 


Lthe  first,  — I clinging  to  the  sec- 
ond, — and  we  landed  dry  shod 


in  the  midst  of  as  curious  a 


crowd  of  natives  as  ever  greeted  the  great 
Christopher  himself. 

The  splendor  which  made  Tzintzuntzan 
famous  in  the  days  of  the  good  Bishop 
Quiroga,  when  its  population  numbered 
forty  thousand  souls,  has  long  since  de- 
parted. The  streets  run  at  right  angles, 
and  are  divided  into  squares  of  apparently 
equal  length,  marking  a city  of  some  im- 
portance in  its  day.  High  walls  surround 
each  garden  and  cast  grateful  shadows. 
Many  of  these  are  broken  by  great  fissures 
through  which  can  be  seen  the  ruins  of 
abandoned  tenements  overgrown  with 
weeds  and  tangled  vines.  Along  the  tops 
of  these  walls  fat  melons  ripen  in  the 
dazzling  sun,  their  leaves  and  tendrils 
white  with  dust,  and  from  the  many  seams 


T{int%unt%an  and  the  Titian  197 


and  cracks  the  cacti  flaunt  their  deep-red 
blossoms  in  your  face. 

We  took  the  path  starting  from  the 
beach,  which  widened  into  a broad  road 
as  it  crossed  the  hill,  over  which  could 
be  seen  the  white  spire  of  the  church. 
This  was  beaten  down  by  many  feet,  and 
marked  the  daily  life  of  the  natives  — from 
the  church  to  pray,  to  the  shore  to  fish. 
With  the  exception  of  shaping  some  crude 
pottery,  they  literally  do  nothing  else. 

As  we  advanced  along  this  highway,  — 
Moon  carrying  his  spy-glass  as  an  Irish- 
man would  his  hod  over  his  shoulder,  I 
my  umbrella,  and  the  Indians  my  sketch 
trap  and  a basket  containing  something 
for  the  padre,  — the  wall  thickened  and 
grew  in  height  until  it  ended  in  a cross 
wall,  behind  which  stood  the  ruins  of  a 
belfry,  the  broken  bell  still  clinging  to  the 
rotting  roof  timber.  Adjoining  this  was  a 
crumbling  archway  without  door  or  hinge. 

This  forlorn  entrance  opened  into  the 
grounds  of  the  once  powerful  establish- 
ment of  San  Francisco,  closed  and  in 
ruins  since  1740.  Beyond  this  archway 
stood  another,  protected  by  a heavy  double 


ig8  A White  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


iron  grating,  which  once  swung  wide  to  let 
pass  the  splendid  pageants  of  the  time, 

now  rust  - in- 
crusted,  and 
half  buried  in 
the  ground. 

Once  inside, 
the  transition 
was  delightful. 
There  was  a 
great  garden 
or  orchard 
planted  with 
olive  trees  of 
enormous  size, 

j ’ 

! their  tops  still 
j alive,  and  their 
trunks  seamed 
and  gnarled 
with  the  storms  of  three  and  a half  cen- 
turies, beneath  which  lie  buried  not  only 
the  great  dignitaries  of  the  Church,  but 
many  of  the  allies  and  chiefs  of  Cortez  in 
the  times  of  the  Tarascan  chief tancy. 

On  one  side  of  this  orchard  is  the 
chapel  of  the  Tercer  Order  and  the  Hos- 
pital and  the  convent  church,  now  the 


T%int%unt%an  and  the  Titian  igg 


parroquia.  We  crossed  between  the  trees 
and  waited  outside  the  convent  building 
at  the  foot  of  a flight  of  stone  steps,  built 
along  an  angle  of  a projection  and  lead- 
ins:  to  the  second  floor  of  the  building. 
These  steps  were  crowded  with  Indians, 
as  was  also  the  passageway  within,  wait- 
ing for  an  audience  with  the  parish  priest, 
whose  apartments  were  above. 

Nothing  can  adequately  describe  the 
dilapidation  of  this  entrance  and  its  sur- 
roundings. The  steps  themselves  had 
been  smeared  over  with  mortar  to  hold 
them  together,  the  door  jambs  were  lean- 
ing and  ready  to  fall,  the  passageway  it- 
self ended  in  a window  which  might  once 
have  held  exquisite  panels  of  stained 
glass,  but  which  was  now  open  to  the  ele- 
ments save  where  it  was  choked  up  with 
adobe  bricks  laid  loosely  in  courses.  The 
rooms  opening  into  it  were  tenantless, 
and  infested  with  lizards  and  bats,  and 
the  whole  place  inside  and  out  was  fast 
succumbing  to  a decay  which  seemed  to 
have  reached  its  limit,  and  which  must 
soon  end  in  hopeless  ruin. 

We  found  the  padre  seated  at  a rude 


200  A White  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


table  in  the  darkest  corner  of  a low-ceiled 
room  on  the  left  of  the  corridor,  surrounded 
_ . by  half  a dozen  In- 
dian women.  He 
was  at  dinner,  and 
the  women  were 
serving  him  from 
coarse  earthen 
dishes.  When  he 
turned  at  our  intru- 
sion, we  saw  a short, 
thickset  man,  wear- 
ing a greasy  black 
frock,  a beard  a 
week  old,  and  a 
smile  so  treacher- 
ous that  I involun- 
tarily tapped  my  inside  pocket  to  make 
sure  of  its  contents.  He  arose  lazily, 
gathered  upon  his  coat  cuff  the  few  stray 
crumbs  clinging  to  his  lips,  and  with  a 
searching,  cunning  air,  asked  our  busi- 
ness. 

Moon  shifted  his  spy-glass  until  the 
large  end  was  well  balanced  in  his  hand, 
and  replied  obsequiously,  “To  see  the 
famous  picture,  holy  father.  This,  my 


T^int{iinty_an  and  the  Titian  201 

companion,  is  a distinguished  painter  from 
the  far  East.  He  lias  heard  of  the  glory 
of  this  great  work  of  the  master,  of  which 
you  are  the  sacred  custodian,  and  has 
come  these  many  thousand  miles  to  see  it. 

I hope  your  reverence  will  not  turn  us 
away.” 

I saw  instantly  from  his  face  that  he 
had  anticipated  this,  and  that  his  temper 
was  not  improved  by  Moon’s  request.  I 
learned  afterwards  that  a canoe  had  left 
Patzcuaro  ahead  of  the  catamaran,  and 
that  the  object  of  our  visit  had  already 
been  known  in  Tzintzuntzan  some  hours 
before  we  arrived. 

“ It  is  a holy  day,”  replied  the  padre 
curtly,  “ and  the  sacristy  is  closed.  The 
picture  will  not  be  uncovered.” 

With  this  he  turned  his  back  upon  us 
and  resumed  his  seat. 

I looked  at  Moon.  He  was  sliding  his 
hand  nervously  up  and  down  the  glass, 
and  clutching  its  end  very  much  as  a man 
would  an  Indian  club. 

“Leave  him  to  me,”  he  whispered 
from  behind  his  hand,  noticing  my  disap- 
pointment ; “ I ’ll  get  into  that  sacristy,  if 


202  A White  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


I have  to  bat  him  through  the  door  with 
this.” 

In  the  hamper  which  Moon  had  in- 
structed Griddles  the  chef  to  pack  for  my 
comfort  the  day  before  at  Morelia,  was  a 
small  glass  vessel,  flat  in  shape,  its  con- 
tents repressed  by  a cork  covered  with  tin- 
foil.  When  Moon  landed  from  the  cata- 
maran this  vessel  was  concealed  among 
some  boxes  of  dulces  and  fruits  from 
the  southern  slope,  inclosed  in  a wicker 
basket,  and  intrusted  to  an  Indian  who 
now  stood  within  three  feet  of  the  table. 

“You  are  right,  holy  father,”  said 
Moon,  bowing  low.  “ We  must  respect 
these  holy  days.  I have  brought  your 
reverence  some  delicacies,  and  when  the 
fast  is  over,  you  can  enjoy  them.” 

Then  he  piled  up  in  the  midst  of  the 
rude  earthen  platters  and  clay  cups  and 
bowls,  — greasy  with  the  remnants  of  the 
meal,  — some  bunches  of  grapes,  squares 
of  dulces,  and  a small  bag  of  coffee.  The 
flat  vessel  came  last ; this  Moon  handled 
lovingly,  and  with  the  greatest  care,  rest- 
ing it  finally  against  a pulque  pot  which 
the  padre  had  just  emptied. 


T%int%unt%an  and  the  Titian  203 


The  priest  leaned  forward,  held  the  flat 
vessel  between  his  nose  and  the  window, 
ran  his  eyes  along  the  flow  line,  and  glan- 
cing at  the  women  turned  a dish  over  it 
bottom  side  up. 

“ When  do  you  return  ? ” he  asked. 

“To-day,  your  reverence.” 

There  was  a pause,  during  which  the 
padre  buried  his  face  in  his  hands  and 
Moon  played  pantomime  war  dance  over 
the  shaved  spot  on  his  skull. 

“ How  much  will  the  painter  give  to 
the  poor  of  the  parish  ? ” said  the  padre, 
lifting  his  head. 

After  an  exposition  of  the  dismal  pov- 
erty into  which  the  painter  was  plunged 
by  reason  of  his  calling,  it  was  agreed  that 
upon  the  payment  to  the  padre  of  ctnco 
pesos  in  silver  — about  one  pound  sterling 
— the  painter  might  see  the  picture,  when 
mass  was  over,  the  padre  adding, 

“There  is  presently  a service.  In  an 
hour  it  will  be  over,  then  the  sacristan  can 
open  the  door.” 

Moon  counted  out  the  money  on  the 
table,  piece  by  piece.  The  padre  weighed 
each  coin  on  his  palm,  bit  one  of  them, 


204  ^ White  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


and  with  a satisfied  air  swept  the  whole 
into  his  pocket. 

The  tolling  of  a bell  hurried  the  women 
from  the  room.  The  padre  followed  slow- 
ly, bowing  his  head  upon  his  breast. 
Moon  and  I brought  up  the  rear,  passing 
down  the  crumbling  corridor  over  the  un- 
even flooring  and  upturned  and  broken 
tiles  and  through  a low  archway  until  we 
reached  a gallery  overlooking  a patio. 
Here  was  a sight  one  must  come  to  Mex- 
ico to  see.  Flat  on  the  stone  pavements, 
seated  upon  mats  woven  of  green  rushes, 
knelt  a score  or  more  of  Indian  women, 
their  cheeks  hollow  from  fasting,  and  their 
eyes  glistening  with  that  strange  glassy 
look  peculiar  to  half-starved  people.  Over 
their  shoulders  were  twisted  black  rebo- 
zos, and  around  each  head  was  bound  a 
veritable  crown  of  thorns.  In  their  hands 
they  held  a scourge  of  platted  nettles. 
They  had  sat  here  day  and  night  without 
leaving  these  mats  for  nearly  a week. 

This  terrible  ceremony  occurs  but  once 
a year,  during  passion  week.  The  pen- 
ance lasts  eight  days.  Each  penitent  pays 
a sum  of  money  for  the  privilege,  and  her 


Tyint^uni^an  and  the  Titian  205 

name  and  number  is  then  inscribed  upon 
a sort  of  tally-board  which  is  hung  on  the 
cloister  wall.  Upon  this  is  also  kept  a 
record  of  the  punishment.  The  penitents 
provide  their  zarapes  and  pillows  and  the 
rush  mats  upon  which  to  rest  their  weary 
bones;  the  priest  furnishes  everything 
else,  — a little  greasy  gruel  and  the  stone 
pavement. 

The  padre  threaded  his  way  through  the 
kneeling  groups  without  turning  his  head 
to  the  right  or  left.  When  his  footsteps 
were  heard  they  repeated  their  prayers  the 
louder,  and  one  young  girl,  weak  from 
long  fasting,  raised  her  eyes  to  the  priest’s 
pleadingly.  His  stolid  face  gave  no  sign. 
With  downcast  eyes  she  leaned  forward, 
bent  low,  and  kissed  the  hem  of  his  frock. 
As  she  stooped  Moon  pointed  to  the 
marks  of  the  cruel  thorns  on  her  temples. 

“ Shall  I maul  him  a little  ? ” he  whis- 
pered, twisting  the  glass  uneasily. 

“Wait  until  we  see  the  Titian,  ” I 
pleaded. 

The  cloister  led  into  the  chapel.  It 
was  bare  of  even  the  semblance  of  a 
house  of  worship.  But  for  the  altar  in 


2o6  A White  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


one  end,  and  the  few  lighted  candles,  it 
might  have  passed  for  the  old  refectory  of 
the  convent.  We  edged  our  way  between 
the  kneeling  groups  and  passed  out  of  a 
side  door  into  an  open  court.  Moon 
touched  my  arm. 

“ See  ! that  about  measures  the  poverty 
of  the  place,  he  said.  One  coffin  for  the 
whole  village.” 

On  a rude  bier  lay  a wooden  box,  nar- 
rowed at  one  end.  It  was  made  of  white 
wood,  decorated  on  the  outside  with  a 
rough  design  in  blue  and  yellow.  The 
bottom  was  covered  with  dried  leaves,  and 
the  imprint  of  the  head  and  shoulders  of 
the  poor  fellow  who  had  occupied  it  a few 
hours  before  was  still  distinct. 

“ Two  underneath,  one  inside,  a mum- 
bled prayer,  then  he  helps  to  fill  the  hole 
and  they  save  the  box  for  the  next.  A 
little  too  narrow  for  the  padre,  I am 
afraid,”  soliloquized  Moon,  measuring  the 
width  with  his  eye. 

Another  tap  of  the  bell,  and  the  Indians 
straggled  out  of  the  church  and  dispersed, 
some  going  to  the  village,  others  halting 
under  the  great  tree  trunks,  watching  us 


Tqintquntqzn  and  the  Titian  2oy 


curiously.  Indeed,  I had  before  this  be- 
come aware  of  an  especial  espionage  over 
us,  which  was  never  relaxed  for  a single  in- 
stant. A native  would  start  out  from  a 
doorway  as  soon  as  we  touched  the  thresh- 
old, another  would  be  concealed  behind  a 
tree  or  projecting  wall  until  we  passed. 
Then  he  would  walk  away  aimlessly,  look- 
ing back  and  signalling  to  another  hidden 
somewhere  else.  This  is  not  unusual  with 
these  natives.  They  have  always  resented 
every  overture  to  part  with  their  picture, 
and  are  particularly  suspicious  of  stran- 
gers who  come  from  a distance  to  see  it, 
they  worshipping  it  with  a blind  idolatry 
easily  understood  in  their  race. 

This  fear  of  invasion  also  extends  to 
their  village  and  church.  It  has  been 
known  for  several  years  that  an  under- 
ground passageway  led  from  a point  near 
the  church  to  the  old  convent,  and  in 
1855  a party  of  savants , under  the  direc- 
tion of  Father  Aguirre,  began  to  uncover 
its  entrance.  No  open  resistance  was 
made  by  the  natives,  but  in  the  silence  of 
the  night  each  stone  and  shovelful  of 
earth  was  noiselessly  replaced. 


2o8  A White  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


A few  years  later  the  Bishop  of  Mexico 
offered  for  this  picture  the  sum  of  twenty 
thousand  pesetas,  a sum  of  money  fabu- 
lous in  their  eyes,  and  which  if  honestly 
divided  would  have  made  each  native 
richer  than  an  Aztec  prince.  I do  not 
know  whether  their  religious  prejudices 
influenced  them,  or  whether,  remembering 
the  quality  of  the  penance  gruel,  they  dare 
not  trust  the  padre  to  divide  it,  but  all 
the  same  it  was  refused.  Moon  assured 
me  that  if  the  painting  ever  left  its  rest- 
ing place  it  must  go  without  warning,  and 
be  protected  by  an  armed  force.  It  would 
be  certain  death  to  any  one  to  attempt  its 
removal  otherwise,  and  he  firmly  believed 
that  sooner  than  see  it  leave  their  village 
the  Indians  would  destroy  it. 

“ Senor,  the  padre  says  come  to  him.” 

The  messenger  was  a sun-dried,  shriv- 
elled Mexican  half-breed,  with  a wicked 
eye  and  a beak-like  nose.  About  his  head 
was  twisted  a red  handkerchief,  over  which 
was  flattened  a heavy  felt  sombrero.  He 
was  barefooted,  and  his  trousers  were  held 
up  by  a leather  strap. 

“ Who  are  you  ? ” said  Moon. 


T%int%unt%an  and  the  Titian  209 


“ I am  the  sacristan.” 

“ I thought  so.  Lead  on.  A lovely 
pair  of  cherubs,  are  they  not  ? ” 

The  padre  met  us  at  the  door.  He  had 
sad  news  for  us  ; his  mortification  was  ex- 
treme. The  man  who  cleaned  the  sac- 
risty had  locked  the  door  that  morning 
and  started  for  Quiroga  on  a donkey.  No 
one  else  had  a key. 

I suggested  an  immediate  chartering  of 
another,  and  somewhat  livelier  donkey, 
with  instructions  to  overtake  and  bring 
back  the  man  with  the  key,  dead  or  alive. 
The  padre  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and 
said  there  was  but  one  donkey  in  the  vil- 
lage,— he  was  underneath  the  man  with 
the  key.  Moon  closed  one  eye  and  turned 
the  other  incredulously  on  the  priest. 

“ When  will  the  man  return  ? ” 

“ In  three  days.” 

“ Your  reverence,”  said  the  commo- 
dore slowly,  “do  not  send  for  him.  It 
might  annoy  him  to  be  hurried.  We  will 
break  in  the  door  and  pay  for  a new 
lock.” 

Then  followed  a series  of  protests,  be' 
ginning  with  the  sacrilege  of  mutilating  so 


2io  A White  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


sacred  a door,  and  ending  with  a sugges- 
tion from  the  saffron-colored  sacristan 
that  an  additional  cinco  pesos  would  about 
cover  the  mutilation,  provided  every  cen- 
tavo of  it  was  given  to  the  poor  of  the 


parish,  and  that  the  further  insignificant 
sum  of  five  pesetas,  if  donated  to  the  es- 
pecial use  of  his  sun-dried  excellency, 
might  induce  him  to  revive  one  of  his  lost 
arts,  and  operate  on  the  lock  with  a rusty 
nail. 

Moon  counted  out  the  money  with  a 
suppressed  sigh,  remarking  that  he  had 
“ always  pitied  the  poor,  but  never  so 
much  as  now.”  Then  we  followed  the 


T%int%unt%an  and  the  Titian  21  r 


padre  and  the  sacristan  down  the  winding 
steps  leading  to  the  cloister,  through  the 
dark  corridor,  past  the  entrance  to  the 
chapel,  and  halted  at  an  arch  closed  by 
two  swinging  doors.  His  yellowness  fum- 
bled among  some  refuse  in  one  corner, 
picked  up  a bit  of  debris,  applied  his  eyes 
to  an  imaginary  keyhole,  and  pushed  open 
a pair  of  wooden  doors  entirely  bare  of 
lock,  hasp,  or  latch.  They  had  doubtless 
swung  loose  for  half  a century  ! I had  to 
slip  my  arm  through  Moon’s  and  pin  his 
toes  to  the  pavement  to  keep  him  still. 

The  padre  and  the  half-breed  uncov- 
ered and  dropped  upon  their  knees.  I 
looked  over  their  heads  into  a room  about 
thirty  feet  long  by  twenty  wide,  with  a 
high  ceiling  of  straight  square  rafters. 
The  floor  was  paved  in  great  squares  of 
marble  laid  diagonally,  the  walls  were 
seamed,  cracked,  and  weather  - stained. 
The  only  opening  other  than  the  door  was 
a large  window,  protected  on  the  outside 
by  three  sets  of  iron  gratings,  and  on  the 
inside  by  double  wooden  shutters.  The 
window  was  without  glass.  The  only  arti- 
cles of  furniture  visible  were  a round  ta- 


212  A White  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


ble  with  curved  legs  occupying  the  centre 
of  the  room,  a towel-rack  and  towel  hung 
on  the  wall,  and  a row  of  wooden  drawers 
built  like  a bureau,  completely  filling  the 
end  of  the  room  opposite  the  door.  Over 
this  was  hung,  or  rather  fitted,  the  three 
sides  of  a huge  carved  frame,  showing 
traces  of  having  once  been  gilded,  — the 
space  was  not  high  enough  to  admit  its  top 


member.  Inside 
this  frame  glowed 
the  noble  picture. 

I forgot  the  padre,  the  oily-tongued  sacris- 
tan, and  even  my  friend  Moon,  in  my  won- 
der, loosened  my  trap,  opened  the  stool, 
and  sat  down  with  bated  breath  to  enjoy  it. 


7 \int%iint%an  and  the  Titian  213 


My  first  thought  was  of  its  marvellous 
preservation.  More  than  three  hundred 
years  have  elapsed  since  the  great  master 
touched  it,  and  yet  one  is  deluded  into 
the  belief  that  it  was  painted  but  yester- 
day, so  fresh,  pure,  and  rich  is  its  color. 
This  is  no  doubt  due  to  the  climate,  and 
to  the  clear  air  circulating  through  the 
open  window. 

The  picture  is  an  Entombment,  sixteen 
feet  long  by  seven  feet  high.  Surround- 
ing the  dead  Christ  wrapped  in  a winding 
sheet,  one  end  of  which  is  held  in  the 
teeth  of  a disciple,  stands  the  Virgin, 
Magdalen,  Saint  John,  and  nine  other  fig- 
ures, all  life-size.  In  the  upper  left  hand 
corner  is  a bit  of  blue  sky,  against  which 
is  relieved  an  Italian  villa,  — the  painter’s 
own,  a caprice  of  Titian’s  often  seen  in 
his  later  works. 

The  high  lights  fall  upon  the  arm  of 
the  Saviour  drooping  from  the  hammock- 
shaped sheet  in  which  he  is  carried,  and 
upon  the  head  covering  of  the  Virgin 
bending  over  him.  A secondary  light  is 
found  in  the  patch  of  blue  sky.  To  the 
right  and  behind  the  group  of  disciples 


214  A White  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


the  shadows  are  intensely  dark,  relieving 
the  rich  tones  of  the  browns  and  blues 
in  the  draperies,  and  the  flesh  tones  for 
which  the  painter  is  famous.  The  exquisite 
drawing  of  each  figure,  the  gradation  of 
light  and  shade,  the  marvellous  composi- 
tion, the  relief  and  modelling  of  the  Christ, 
the  low  but  luminous  tones  in  which  it  is 
painted,  the  superb  harmony  of  these 
tones,  all  pronounce  it  the  work  of  a 
master. 

The  questions  naturally  arise,  Is  it  by 
Titian  ? and  if  so,  how  came  it  here  in  an 
Indian  village  in  the  centre  of  Mexico, 
and  why  has  it  been  lost  all  these  years 
to  the  art  world  ? To  the  first  I answer, 
if  not  by  Titian,  who  then  of  his  time  could 
paint  it  ? The  second  is  easier  : until  the 
railroads  of  the  last  few  years  opened  up 
the  country,  Mexico’s  isolation  was  com- 
plete. 

A slight  resume  of  the  history  of  its 
surroundings  may  shed  some  light  on  the 
question.  After  the  ruin  wrought  in  Mi- 
choacan  in  the  early  part  of  the  six- 
teenth century  by  the  evil  acts  of  Nino 
de  Guzman,  — the  president  of  the  first 


T%int%unt\an  and  the  Titian  21 5 


Audencia, — terminating  in  the  burning 
of  the  Tarascan  chief  Sinzicha,  the  people, 
maddened  with  terror,  fled  to  the  moun- 
tains around  Tzintziintzan  and  refused  to 
return  to  their  homes.  To  remedy  these 
evils,  the  Emperor  Charles  V.  selected 
the  members  of  the  second  Audencia  from 
among  the  wisest  and  best  men  of  Spain. 
One  of  these  was  an  intimate  friend  of  the 
emperor,  an  eminent  lawyer,  the  Licen- 
ciado  Vasco  de  Quiroga.  Being  come  to 
Mexico,  Don  Vasco,  in  the  year  1533,  vis- 
ited the  depopulated  towns,  and  with  ad- 
mirable patience,  gentleness,  and  love, 
prevailed  on  the  terror-stricken  Indians 
to  have  faith  in  him  and  return  to  their 
homes.1 

The  Bishopric  of  Michoacan  was  then 
founded,  and  this  mitre  was  offered  to 
Quiroga,  though  he  was  then  a layman. 
Thereupon  Quiroga  took  holy  orders,  and 
having  been  raised  quickly  through  the 
successive  grades  of  the  priesthood,  was 
consecrated  a bishop  and  took  possession 
of  his  see  in  the  church  of  San  Francisco 
in  Tzintziintzan  August  22,  1538.  He 
1 Janvier’s  Mexican  Guide. 


216  A White  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


was  then  sixty-eight  years  old.  As  bishop, 
he  completed  the  conquest  through  love 
that  he  had  begun  while  yet  a layman. 
He  established  schools  of  letters  and  the 
arts ; introduced  manufactures  of  copper 
and  other  metals  ; imported  from  Spain 
cattle  and  seeds  for  acclimatization  ; 
founded  hospitals,  and  established  the 
first  university  of  New  Spain,  that  of  San 
Nicholas,  now  in  Morelia. 

When  Philip  II.  ascended  the  throne  the 
good  deeds  of  the  holy  bishop  had  reached 
his  ears,  and  the  power  and  growth  of  his 
see  had  deeply  touched  the  heart  of  the 
devout  monarch,  awakening  in  his  mind 
a profound  interest  in  the  welfare  of  the 
church  at  Tzintzuntzan  and  Patzcuaro. 
During  this  period  the  royal  palaces  at 
Madrid  were  filled  with  the  finest  pictures 
of  Titian,  and  the  royal  family  of  Spain 
formed  the  subjects  of  his  best  portraits. 
The  Emperor  Charles  V.  had  been  and 
was  then  one  of  the  master’s  most  lib- 
eral patrons.  He  had  made  him  a count, 
heaped  upon  him  distinguished  honors, 
and  had  been  visited  by  him  twice  at 
Augsburg  and  once  at  Bologna  where  he 


Tgintguntgan  and  the  Titian  21 7 

painted  his  portrait.  It  is  even  claimed 
by  some  biographers  that  by  special  in- 
vitation of  his  royal  patron  Titian  vis- 
ited Spain  about  the  year  1550,  and  was 
entertained  with  great  splendor  at  the 
court.  Moreover,  it  is  well  known  that 
he  was  granted  a pension,  and  that  this 
was  kept  up  by  Philip  until  the  painter’s 
death. 

Remembering  the  dates  at  which  these 
events  took  place ; the  fanatical  zeal  of 
Philip,  and  his  interest  in  the  distant 
church,  redeemed  and  made  glorious  by 
Quiroga,  the  friend  and  protege  of  his  royal 
predecessor  ; the  possible  presence  of  Ti- 
tian at  the  court  at  the  time,  certainly  the 
influence  of  his  masterpieces,  together 
with  the  fact  that  the  subject  of  this  pic- 
ture was  a favorite  one  with  him,  notably 
the  Entombment  in  Venice  and  the  rep- 
lica at  the  Louvre,  it  is  quite  within  the 
range  of  probability  that  Philip  either  or- 
dered this  especial  picture  from  the  mas- 
ter himself,  or  selected  it  from  the  royal 
collection. 

It  is  quite  improbable,  in  view  of  the 
above  facts,  that  the  royal  donor  would 


218  A White  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


have  sent  the  work  of  an  inferior  painter 
representing  it  to  be  by  Titian,  or  a copy  by 
one  of  his  pupils. 

Another  distinguishing  feature,  and  by 
far  the  most  conclusive,  is  its  handling. 
Without  strong  contrasting  tones  of  color 
Titian  worked  out  a peculiar  golden  mel- 
low tone,  — which  of  itself  exercises  a 
magical  charm,  — and  divided  it  into  in- 
numerable small  but  significant  shades, 
producing  thereby  a most  complete  illu- 
sion of  life.  This  Titianesque  quality  is 
particularly  marked  in  the  nude  body  of 
the  Christ,  the  flesh  appearing  to  glow 
with  a hidden  light. 

Moon’s  criticisms  were  thoroughly  char- 
acteristic. He  hoped  I was  satisfied.  Did 
I want  to  see  both  sides  of  it ; if  I did, 
he  would  push  out  the  rear  wall.  Would 
the  spy-glass  be  of  any  use,  etc.  I waved 
him  away,  opened  my  easel,  and  began  a 
hurried  memorandum  of  the  interior,  and 
a rough  outline  of  the  position  of  the  fig- 
ures on  the  canvas.  When  his  retreating 
footsteps  echoed  down  the  corridor,  I 
closed  the  doors  gently  behind  him  and 
resumed  my  work.  The  picture  al> 


T?int%unt%an  and  the  Titian  21  g 


sorbed  me.  I wanted  to  be  shut  up  alone 
with  it. 

A sense  of  a sort  of  temporary  owner- 
ship comes  over  one  when  left  alone  in 
a room  containing  some  priceless  treas- 
ure or  thing  of  beauty  not  his  own.  It 
is  a selfish  pleasure  which  is  undisturbed, 
and  which  you  do  not  care  to  share  with 
another.  For  the  time  being  you  monop- 
olize it,  and  it  is  as  really  your  own  as 
if  you  had  the  bill  of  sale  in  your  pocket. 
I deluded  myself  with  this  fancy,  and  be- 
gan examining  more  closely  the  iron  grat- 
ings of  the  window  and  the  manner  of 
fastening  them  to  the  masonry,  wonder- 
ing whether  they  would  always  be  secure. 
I inspected  all  the  rude  ornaments  on 
the  front  of  the  drawers  of  the  wide  low 
bureau  which  stood  immediately  beneath 
the  picture ; opened  one  of  them  a few 
inches  and  discovered  a bundle  of  vest- 
ments dust  covered  and  spattered  with 
candle  grease.  Lifting  myself  up  I noted 
the  carving  of  the  huge  frame,  and  fol- 
lowed the  lines  of  the  old  gilding  into 
its  dust-begrimed  channels ; and  to  make 
a closer  study  of  the  texture  of  the  can- 


220  A White  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


vas  and  the  handling  of  the  pigments,  I 
mounted  the  bureau  itself  and  walked  the 
length  of  the  painting,  applying  my  pocket 
magnifying  glass  to  the  varnished  sur- 
face. When  I stood  upright  the  drooping 
figure  of  the  Christ  reached  nearly  to  the 
level  of  my  eye.  Looking  closer  I found 
the  over-glaze  to  be  rich  and  singularly 
transparent,  and  after  a careful  scrutiny 
fancied  I could  separate  into  distinct 
tones  the  peculiar  mosaic  of  color  in 
which  most  of  all  lies  the  secret  of  Ti- 
tian’s flesh.  In  the  eagerness  of  my  search 
I unconsciously  bent  forward  and  laid 
my  hand  upon  the  Christ. 

“ Cuidado  ! Estrangero,  es  muerte!  ” (Be- 
ware ! Stranger,  it  is  death  ! ”)  came  a 
quick  angry  voice  in  my  rear. 

I started  back  with  my  heart  in  my 
mouth.  Behind  me,  inside  the  doors, 
stood  two  Indians.  One  advanced  threat- 
eningly, the  other  rushed  out  shouting  for 
the  padre.  In  an  instant  the  room  was 
crowded  with  natives  clamoring  wildly, 
and  pointing  at  me  with  angry  looks  and 
gestures.  The  padre  arrived  breathless, 
followed  by  Moon,  who  had  forced  his 


T%int%unt%an  ami  the  Titian 


22  / 


way  through  the  throng,  his  big  frame 
towering  above  the  others. 

During  the  hubbub  I kept  my  place  on 
the  bureau,  undecided  what  to  do. 

“ You  have  put  your  foot  in  it  ! ” said 
Moon,  to  me,  in  English  in  a tone  of 
voice  new  to  me  from  him.  “ Do  exactly 
what  I tell  you,  and  perhaps  we  may  get 
away  from  here  with  a whole  skin.  Turn 
your  face  to  the  picture.”  I did  so. 
“ Now  come  down  from  that  old  clothes- 
press  backwards,  get  down  on  your  knees, 
and  bow  three  times,  you  lunatic.” 

I had  sense  enough  left  to  do  this  rev- 
erently, and  with  some  show  of  cere- 
mony. 

Then  without  moving  a muscle  of  his 
face,  and  with  the  deepest  earnestness, 
Moon  turned  to  the  padre  and  said  : — 
“The  distinguished  painter  is  a true 
believer,  holy  father.  His  hand  had  lost 
its  cunning  and  he  could  no  longer  paint. 
He  was  told  in  a dream  to  journey  to 
this  place,  where  he  would  find  this  sa- 
cred treasure,  upon  touching  which  his 
hand  would  regain  its  power.  See  ! Here 
is  the  proof.” 


222  A White  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


The  padre  examined  the  sketch  resting 
upon  my  easel,  and  without  taking  his  eye 
from  Moon,  repeated  the  miracle  to  the 
Indians  in  their  own  tongue.  The  change 
in  their  demeanor  was  instantaneous. 
The  noise  ceased  ; a silence  fell  upon  the 
group  and  they  crowded  about  the  draw- 
ing wonderstruck.  Moon  bowed  low  to 
the  padre,  caught  up  the  standing  easel, 
threw  my  trap  over  his  shoulder,  pushed 
me  ahead  of  him,  an  opening  was  made, 
— the  people  standing  back  humbly,  — 
and  we  passed  through  the  crowd  and  out 
into  the  sunlight. 

Once  clear  of  the  church  he  led  the  way 
straight  to  the  catamaran,  hoisted  the  sail, 
manned  the  sweeps,  swung  the  rudder 
clear  of  the  shoal,  and  headed  for  Patz- 
cuaro.  When  everything  was  snug  and 
trim  for  the  voyage  home,  and  the  cata- 
maran had  drifted  slowly  out  into  the 
deep  water  of  the  lake,  the  commodore 
lounged  down  the  deck,  laid  his  hand 
upon  my  shoulder,  and  said,  half  reprov- 
ingly, — 

“ Well,  you  beat  the  devil.” 


T%int%unt%an  and  the  Titian  22 3 


When  we  pushed  off  from  Tzintzuntzan, 
the  afternoon  sun  was  glorifying  our  end 
of  the  universe,  and  in  our  delirium  we  fan- 
cied we  had  but  to  spread  our  one  wing 
to  reach  bed  and  board,  fifteen  miles 
distant,  before  the  rosy  twilight  could 
fade  into  velvet  blue.  But  the  wind  was 
contrary.  It  was  worse  — it  was  mali- 
cious. It  blew  south,  then  north,  and 
then  took  a flying  turn  all  around  the 
four  points  of  the  compass,  and  finally 
settled  down  to  a steady  freshness  dead 
ahead.  For  hours  at  a time  low  points  of 
land  and  high  hills  guarded  by  sentinel 
trees  anchored  themselves  off  our  weather 
bow  as  if  loath  to  part  from  us,  and  re- 
mained immovable  until  an  extra  spurt  at 
the  sweeps  drove  them  into  the  darkness. 
To  return  was  hazardous,  to  drift  ashore 
dangerous,  to  advance  almost  impossible. 
As  the  night  wore  on  the  wind  grew  tired 
of  frolicking  and  went  careering  over  the 
mountains  behind  us.  Then  the  lake  grew 
still,  and  the  sweeps  gained  upon  the 
landscape  and  point  after  point  floated 
off  mysteriously  and  disappeared  in  the 
gloom. 


224  ^ White  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


All  night  we  lay  on  the  deck  looking  up 
at  the  stars  and  listening  to  the  steady 
plashing  of  the  sweeps,  pitying  the  poor 
fellows  at  their  task  and  lending  a hand 
now  and  then  to  give  them  a breathing 
spell.  The  thin  crescent  of  the  new  moon, 
which  had  glowed  into  life  as  the  color 
left  the  evening  sky,  looked  at  us  wonder- 
ingly  for  a while,  then  concluding  that  we 
intended  making  a night  of  it,  dropped 
down  behind  the  hills  of  Xanicho  and  went 
to  bed.  Her  namesake  wrapped  his  own 
coat  about  me,  protesting  that  the  night 
air  was  bad  for  foreigners,  threw  one  end 
of  the  ragged  tarpaulin  over  his  own 
shoulders,  tucked  a hamper  under  his 
head,  and  spent  the  night  moralizing  over 
the  deliberate  cruelty  of  my  desertion  in 
the  morning. 

It  was  a long  and  dreary  voyage.  The 
provender  was  exhausted.  There  was  not 
on  board  a crumb  large  enough  to  feed  a 
fly.  Between  the  padre,  the  six  Indians, 
and  ourselves  every  fig,  dulce,  bone,  crust, 
and  drop  had  disappeared. 

When  the  first  streak  of  light  illumined 
the  sky  we  found  ourselves  near  enough 


T{int{unt{an  and  the  Titian  225 


to  Patzcuaro  to  follow  the  outline  of  the 
hills  around  the  town  and  locate  the  little 
huts  close  to  the  shore.  When  the  dawn 
broke  clear  we  were  pushing  aside  the 
tall  grass  near  the  beach,  and  the  wild 
fowl,  startled  from  their  haunts,  were 
whirling  around  our  heads. 

The  barking  of  a dog  aroused  the  in- 
mates of  a cabin  near  the  water’s  edge, 
and  half  an  hour  later  Moon  was  pound- 
ing coffee  in  a bag  and  I devilling  the 
legs  of  a turkey  over  a charcoal  brazier  — 
the  inmates  had  devoured  all  but  the 
drumsticks  the  night  before.  We  were 
grateful  that  he  was  not  a cripple.  While 
the  savory  smell  of  the  toasted  cacone, 
mingled  with  the  aroma  of  boiling  coffee, 
filled  the  room,  Moon  set  two  plates,  cut 
some  great  slices  of  bread  from  a loaf 
which  he  held  between  his  knees,  and 
divided  equally  the  remnants  of  the  frugal 
meal.  Two  anatomical  specimens  picked 
clean  and  white  and  two  empty  plates 
told  the  story  of  our  appetites. 

“ At  eight  o’clock,  caro  mio,  the  train 
returns  to  the  East.  Do  you  still  in- 
sist on  being  barbarous  enough  to  leave 


226  A White  Umbrella  in  Mexico 


me  ? What  have  I done  to  you  that  you 
should  treat  me  thus  ? ” 

I pleaded  my  necessities.  I had  reached 
the  end  of  my  journey.  My  task  was 
completed  ; henceforth  my  face  must  be 
set  towards  the  rising  sun.  Would  he 
return  as  far  with  me  as  Zacate'cas,  or 
even  to  the  city  of  Mexico  ? 

No,  he  expected  a dispatch  from  his 
chief.  He  would  stay  at  Patzcuaro. 

I expected  this.  It  was  always  his 
chief.  No  human  being  had  ever  seen 
him  ; no  messenger  had  ever  brought  news 
of  his  arrival ; no  employee  had  ever  ex- 
plained his  delay.  In  none  of  the  cit- 
ies through  which  we  had  travelled  had 
Moon  ever  spent  five  minutes  in  looking 
him  up,  or  ten  seconds  in  regretting  his 
absence. 

When  my  traps  were  aboard,  and  the 
breezy,  happy- hearted  fellow  had  wrung 
my  hand  for  the  twentieth  time,  I said  to 
him  : — 

“ Moon,  one  thing  before  we  part.  Have 
you  ever  seen  your  chief  for  a single  in- 
stant since  we  left  Toluca?  ” 

He  looked  at  me  quizzically,  closed  his 


T%int%unt%an  and  the  Titian  22J 


left  eye,  — a habit  with  him  when  anything 
pleased  him  greatly,  — and  replied  : — 

“ A dozen  times.” 

“ Where  ? ” I asked  doubtingly. 

“ When  I shave.” 


